The Convent
by Gunney
Summary: Hogan and his men have misgivings about a mission that, although well vetted, seems ill conceived from the start. When everything goes wrong at once Hogan and his men are separated, but forced to keep things running for the sake of the many lives relying on them. Will be Continued in the story, "The Camp"
1. Chapter 1

Colonel Hogan woke slowly to the chatter of German voices. Never a good sign in his line of work.

His first breath was like fire in his lungs and he jerked into a violent convulsion that rocked him, and ignited pain everywhere. Dragging in desperate breaths around the coughing spell, Hogan could taste gunpowder, and the potpourri of smoke that hangs around burning buildings. Not just wood smoke, but cloth, plastic, animal hair...perhaps even human.

A structure was on fire somewhere, and as the constricting pressure in his lungs died a little, Hogan began to consider that he might just be _inside_ the burning structure, and in desperate need of a fast escape.

He tried to open bleary, watering eyes, but could see next to nothing. Dim light, red orange bursts here and there, and a forest of thick dark shapes, swaying and shifting. He made an attempt at rolling onto his side and regretted it instantly.

Bone ground on bone in his shoulder, his ribs flared with a warning not to put any more weight on them. His head throbbed loudly and a hundred other bruises made themselves known. The chorus of German never seemed to stop, matching tempo with his racing pulse. The world was spinning around him, the air was unbreathable. Consciousness seemed like an unreasonable and outrageous request that his brain quickly denied him.

As he slipped back into the black he had the sensation of a cool breeze washing over his face briefly before the pain, the voices and the roar of the flames died to nothing.

* * *

10 minutes before.

"This can't be the place. It just can't be!"

"I tell ya those Nazi's have gone the absolute lowest that they can go. This is…just…it's just! This!"

"Carter…" Hogan directed the long suffering proper noun toward the younger American Sergeant before he looked back to the second NCO he had taken with him on the mission. "Kinch-"

"I've double and triple checked the coordinates, Colonel." The imposing black man assured him, speaking in the same hushed tone the other two had used. The dark, cap-covered head nodded toward the stone parapet they stood in front of, and the towering building beyond and he sighed, "This is the target. We're supposed to blow it tonight."

Hogan didn't like it. Not a single part of it, and he knew he was stalling when he looked again at his watch. The glowing dial told him it was 0300 hours. Three in the morning. The street was dead, and the building in front of them was still and silent. The only sign of life was a candle burning in an upper window.

Hogan sighed. "They gave the right code phrase?"

"Yes, Colonel. Everything was absolutely above board." Kinch exchanged a concerned glance with Carter, before they both looked back at the two hundred year old building sitting solid and reposed beyond a set of ornate cast iron gates.

Hogan put a gloved hand up on the gate, the other hand resting on his hip. He shook his head firmly after a second more of thought. "I don't like it."

Even as he was certain that Carter agreed with him, Colonel Hogan noticed the sergeant's shoulders droop a little.

Carter had been carrying his latest explosive creation like a Christmas present most of the way. Now he looked like a disappointed elf.

Kinch had a similar defeated look on his face, colored by doubt.

The same doubt that Hogan felt raising the hair on the back of his neck. "It doesn't make sense." The Colonel continued, looking between the other two Americans with him. "Why would the Gestapo set up headquarters in a convent?"

Kinch shrugged, "For the same reason that they tried building factories and refueling depots just outside our prison camp. Anyplace they figure the Allies won't bomb…"

"Yeah…" Hogan trailed off, checked his watch again, then lifted tired, concerned brown eyes to the round stained glass window that took up a quarter of the building's south face. "Alright, we'll set the charges and do it quick, but if anybody sees anything that isn't wearing a German uniform, we abort. Got it?"

He received two concise nods, before he unwound the rope he'd been carrying and made the slip knot loop that would secure the rope to the top of the wall.

"You know I just thought of something." Carter said, his eyes bulging a little wider than usual, staring intently at nothing. "What about guards? There's nobody guardin' the place. Since when does the Gestapo go without guards?"

It was a good point, Hogan thought, before he gritted his teeth, gave the rope a toss and a good pair of yanks, then started up it. They hadn't had the time to the do the usual, thorough reconnaissance that the Colonel preferred. For that reason they hadn't known what the building was, or why the deadline was so imperative. Only the when and where and a very vague why.

At the top of the wall, Hogan filled his lungs with the crisp night air and gazed around the quiet compound. The convent took up a good portion of the enclosed lot. The rest was either well-trodden grass, or cracking cobblestone. There was an old, crippled lorry half-hidden in weeds on the western side of the building, a water-less fountain in the center of the courtyard and a wheelbarrow sitting near the south door, overturned, its tire flat.

No black sedans, no towering radials, no armed guards. Hogan backed away from the rope as Kinchloe started up, offering the man a hand once he was in reach.

"No barbed wire? No alarms?" Kinch asked, huffing a little from the exertion of the climb.

Hogan shook his head, turning his attention to Carter who stood on tiptoe handing up the bomb. "Not so you'd notice." He said, carefully clutching the explosives to his chest.

Carter scampered up the rope like he had been born to it, and stood easily on the wall dragging the rope from one side to the other.

Before he could lower himself into the courtyard Hogan stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. The CO jabbed a gloved finger against the dark leather jacket he wore and said, "Me first."

Carter paused long enough for concern to register on his face, then nodded and moved away from the rope, taking the bomb instead.

Hogan took a moment to study the length of the wall in both directions, glancing at the street and the sky for good measure before he started down the rope. The moment his feet hit sand covered cobblestone he expected to hear sirens and be blinded by search lights, but the world was still and silent. He stood slowly from the crouched position he had automatically assumed and shook his head.

He still didn't like it. It was too easy. Too unassuming. Too calm.

* * *

"Too….calm…"

"Was hat er gasagt?"

"Was ist "calm"?"

"Ich weiss es nicht. Es gibt jedoch zwei."

"Too c…calm." The voices were back. Young, or female, or both. They were whispering, matching the volume that Hogan could barely manage. His throat felt like someone had laid into it with a razor. He could feel the urge to cough building in his lungs but he desperately resisted, knowing it would be blindingly painful.

He could smell smoke still, but it was faint. Not actively in the air, but perhaps clinging to draperies or clothing. He thought about trying to open his eyes again and a second later he managed it. He found a face and latched onto it. Blue eyes, pale skin, freckles, and a veil probably hiding a mane of reddish hair. She looked at him and parted pale lips to reveal a row of crooked, youthful teeth, and a grin that seemed entirely out of place with how rotten he felt.

"Ich habe dir gesagt, was er nicht tot!" The girl said, sticking her tongue out at someone behind Hogan's head. Too far away for him to even consider trying to follow her gaze.

He heard a petulant grunt from that direction. From the defiant tone that Freckles had used, he could only guess that the girl might have just won a bet.

"Konnen sie steigen?" She asked him, and he noticed for the first time the dull crack in the young lady's voice. Something she had always had, or the result of the smoke that she reeked of, he couldn't know. She was however staring at him expectantly and after a moment he mustered the energy to say,

"Um…" It hurt, and he grimaced and closed his eyes. His voice had popped and squeaked, but he had managed to say a word without another coughing fit. Progress. What else had hurt the last time?

Hogan began to experiment, moving one hand, then the other. One foot, then a leg, bending at the knee. Legs were okay, right arm was fine, but the left arm… His left shoulder felt like it had grown too big for the skin. Tight, hot and painful with swelling, and the ribs on that side were hot and pressed tight against the skin too. He must have landed on his left side.

Landed…

Had he been flying?

Freckles wasn't looking at him anymore. Her attention had very recently been redirected toward something else and the voices had hushed quickly.

Hogan had worked out the beginnings of a plan concerning how he was going to get upright, but he was far from jumping to his feet. At the look of fear and panic on Freckles' face, however, a jolt of adrenaline pushed past the weariness and pain.

"What…what is it?" Hogan croaked, pushing himself up on his good elbow and wincing at the sharp jabs of debris underneath him. His eyes were a little clearer now and he could see that the orange blobs were still burning fires, the swaying dark forms were a host of other girls…novitiates perhaps, surrounding him like curious zoo-goers.

Or in this case, zoo-goers who had just realized that the lion was out of its cage.

Freckles looked like she wanted to help as Hogan moved from part A to part B of the 'get on your feet old man' plan. But the other girls were pulling her back, their eyes fixed on whatever new terror was approaching.

Colonel Robert. E. Hogan managed to get to his knees and sat back on his heels breathing heavily around the pressure on his left side. Cracked ribs? And a dislocated, if not broken, shoulder. His head was wet on that side, too.

But the danger, whatever it was, was coming from his left, so he was going to have to turn his head to see it.

The move cost him a few seconds of blurry vision, but when the images sharpened again all he saw was Kinchloe, moving slow but steady, dragging a half-conscious Carter along.

"It's okay." Hogan croaked, reaching his palm towards the frightened girls. "They're….with me."

'On your feet, soldier.' He ordered himself. By the time Kinch reached him, Hogan had managed it. Bent slightly at the waist, left arm tucked in tight, and by no means steady, but on his feet.

"You're alright." Kinch breathed, relief glimmering under the exhaustion.

Hogan gave him a critical once over, noted the tears in his intentionally dark clothing, the glimmer of something wet on the taller man's forehead and the swelling under his right eye.

Carter was bent almost double, his left arm slung over Kinch's shoulders, his right clutching at his thigh.

His men were wounded, in bad shape. Their mission had been horribly compromised from the start somehow, and as his memory returned, Hogan realized he had one additional responsibility.

No, not one. But seven.

Seven terrified, nearly blown up, teenaged novice nuns.

Everything began to pound just a little harder and Hogan took a deep breath.

"We're in…a lot of trouble."

As the black man nodded a series of sirens began to register over the noise of the flames.

Hogan met Kinch's panicked look, then they both looked at Carter.

"Plan B, Colonel?"


	2. Chapter 2

The sun rose early over Stalag 13 that following morning. For LeBeau the timing was retched. Colonel Hogan, Kinch and Carter should have been back almost two hours prior to sunrise, and three hours before the scheduled morning roll call.

While the rest of the men slept, LeBeau had been stationed in the barracks and Newkirk in the tunnel near the radio. The night had been one long, unbroken nightmare of second guessing and worry.

From the start the mission had felt like a mistake.

For one thing, the underground was always more specific.

"If they want us to blow up a bridge, oui, the bridge we blow up. If they want an ammo dump, or a factory…" LeBeau snapped his fingers, then glanced down the open bunk ladder to Newkirk, "…it is nothing but ash. But an address? Only an address?!"

From below Newkirk shook his head slowly, agreeing with the little Frenchman. It was whacky, the whole thing, but they had jumped through all the usual hoops.

"It's a bit of a lark, too. Nearly fifty miles away, and to the south…that's all forest and farm country." The Englishman flashed the map that he'd been studying briefly under the hole in the ceiling, then reached for the radio and slipped through the frequencies once again. A move very familiar to him after five hour's repetition.

"Oui. No important railroad depots, no enemy or Allied activity! _And_ they are late."

"I know they're late, Louie."

"We should go after them."

"We can't…and you know it." Newkirk responded, for the umpteenth time shooting down the idea that both of them had been trying not to have. They couldn't leave camp. Not yet. Someone would have to cover for three of their own being out of the barracks.

"Non…what I know is…next time there is a mission I do not trust, _I_ will be going instead of Colonel Hogan. Klink might believe one of _us_ leaving without the others, but not the Colonel."

"They'll make it, LeBeau." Newkirk insisted, sharper than before, again twisting the dial.

The French corporal closed burning eyes and tried to calm his racing heart, leaning against where the bunk support met the wall. The smell of the damp, cold draft traveling from the tunnel had become synonymous with excitement and danger, or safety and homecoming.

Now, Louie wondered if it would only remind him of the last time they had seen their three comrades.

"We should try to contact the underground. Maybe they have heard from-"

"I've tried it, Louie. A dozen times, and one more for show. There's nothin' to be heard on this bloody radio, and no one to talk to." Newkirk snapped, just barely managing to keep his voice down. He wanted to punch the ruddy thing, but Kinch had long ago threatened to shoot him if he ever took out his frustration on the technology. Of course Kinch wasn't there to do the shooting, but Peter Newkirk would rather assume he was coming back and leave the bloody wireless be, than assume Kinch was captured and destroy their only means for finding that out.

"Would it not be better to have _all_ of us escape, than none of us?" LeBeau asked from above, his voice quiet, restrained and thoughtful. "If the barracks are empty there is no one left to answer any questions, or come up with a convincing lie?"

"Nor to talk Klink outta doing something stupid, or bribe Schultz into seeing nothing for just a little while longer." With a grunt, Newkirk tossed the headset on the table in front of him, the surface littered with stubbed cigarettes and the half sandwich he hadn't been able to finish the night before. "We're buggered…"

For a moment both were quiet, LeBeau watching the sun creep along the floorboards of the barracks, and Newkirk staring at a slow seep of condensation on the tunnel wall.

"Unless…we escaped too.."

LeBeau's face popped with consternation and confusion a moment after his mind repeated Newkirk's muttering. "Newkirk, Voilà ce que je viens de dire , avez-vous été à l'écoute! Vous ignorez tout ce que je."

At the sudden burst of French, Newkirk stepped to the ladder and climbed up until he could slap the side of LeBeau's calf. "Ya bloody Frenchman, save your passions for the Marseillaise, an' listen to me. We make like we're escaping through the fence. Like it was our plan to go all together, but you and I get caught. We claim that Colonel 'ogan, Kinch and Carter went first to scout the area and we were to follow behind."

Glaring petulantly with his arms crossed LeBeau considered the plan, quickly spotting where the Englishman was headed. "Then we stall until the bosch put us in the cooler and are sent out looking for the others, and we go looking for them ourselves."

"Yeah, or something like that…" Newkirk agreed, smirking a tiny bit. The plan was insane, chock full of madness, but it felt good to have one.

"We should leave a note in the tunnel for the Colonel, in case they come back that way."

"I'm on it. Wake up the others and make up the barracks will ya, like we were planning on going for an extended vacation."

LeBeau smirked and nodded, scrambling around the barracks, knocking on the bunks and setting the stage. It was only a second thought happenstance that urged him to glance through the window shutters into the compound. What he saw changed the plan completely.

"Newkirk! Change of plans!" He shouted urgently, rushing to the outside door and shoving a chair under the handle, wedging it shut, tight. A dozen pairs of eyes were suddenly on him, some of the men jumping out of bed. "No, no! Back into your bunks." Louie urged.

Fear thrilled through his veins, along with concern for the colonel, and Carter and Kinch. LeBeau ran for Hogan's private room ripping open the middle drawer of the crude desk and snatching out paper, string and a tack. He found a fountain pen and scrawled a message that he desperately hoped would work, just barely remembering to write it in German.

He jabbed two holes in the paper then strung the sign up on Hogan's door using the tack.

"LeBeau! What are you doing? This isn't the time for-"

"No time to explain." LeBeau said breathless. "Fill that pot with water, then get in your bed, pretend to be sick! All of you, pretend to be sick!" Jabbing a poker forcefully into the cook stove the Frenchman wakened the coals then piled wood on until he couldn't fit anymore into the chamber. He directed Newkirk to set the filled pot on the stove and put the lid over it at a slant. Within minutes the fire had grown bright and hot, the pot showing the slightest whispers of steam.

Louie spun in a circle scanning the room as he set the stage, finally rushing for the foot locker beneath his bunk where he found some sprigs of dried thyme, basil and spearmint. The spearmint especially had been hard to come by, and it pained him to use it this way, but they would either sell this or, mostly likely, die trying.

He threw all of the herbs into the pot, stuck a ladle in and ran to pull the chair away from the door knob just as Newkirk finished snuggling into his blankets.

Already the room was warmer than it needed to be, and the men were sweating. Through a crack in the door LeBeau could see a rumpled, but alert Sergeant Schultz throwing a final salute to Klink, who was barking orders to the rest of the compliment of guards in the camp, his face pale with fury.

The moment he stepped off the deck of the Kommandant's quarters Schultz pointed his boots for Barrack 2.

"Schultz is coming. Follow my lead!" Louie whispered, getting a muffled confirmation from Newkirk and some of the other men before he grabbed his own blanket from his bed and went to huddle close to the glowing hot stove, stirring the steaming pot with the ladle.

'You are sick, LeBeau.' He told himself. 'Burning with a fever. Carter and Kinchloe are in quarantine in the Colonel's quarters. Not to be disturbed. If _you_ believe it, Louie, _they_ will believe it!'

"Attention! Everybody up! Immediate roll call by order of the Kommandant. Rous! Rous!" Schultz barked as he entered, slamming the door behind him with casual ease before he swung his hand at the base of the upper bunk that normally held the Englander Newkirk.

Instead of the usual loud chorus of complaints however, his ears were greeted with a testy "Shhhh!" and miserable groans. Already Schultz knew that there was something wrong in the compound. It only took a few minutes to notice the 'wrong' inside the barracks.

It was hot! Far too hot in the room, and smelled of peppermint and herbs…of tea and…

Even as the cockroach began to reprimand him for his volume, Schultz noticed the "Gefahr! Quarantane!" sign tacked to Hogan's door. "Quarantane!?" He asked surprised, doubtful and concerned. "What…what what... _was ist_ -?"

Again the cockroach shh-ed him. "Schultz! Please! Above all else they must have rest! These men are very sick and will not be making roll call today!"

Already the little Frenchman was pushing him towards the door. "These men? What men? What is going on?"

"The men…they all have fever, probably malaria. They have to rest, and take the medicine I made for them."

"Malaria? In Germany?" Schultz demanded, "Carter, Newkirk. Rous! You can't have malaria!"

"Measels, then. How should I know Schultzy, what matters is that they be allowed to sleep. You don't want a pandemic on your hands, do you?"

"Measels? But that is for _kinder_. Please, LeBeau, the Kommandant is very angry. The Major of the Gestapo is here. Something very bad is going on, now is not the time for games!"

From under his blanket Newkirk stiffened involuntarily when he heard that Major Hochstetter was in camp. The man was always trouble and ten times harder to blimey than Klink or Schultz. Somehow LeBeau didn't seem that surprised by the news though, only insisting once more that the sickness in the barracks was very bad and worse, the longer Schultz stayed the more risk he ran of catching it too.

"Measels. Sickness, ha! Newkirk!" Schultz slapped the top bunk again and this time saw the lump under the blanket move sluggishly. To his horror, when the Englander's face finally appeared it was deathly pale and covered in glistening red spots. Newkirk moaned, his eyes rolling in apparent delirium and LeBeau jumped to the stove, ladling some of his boiling concoction into a cup.

"Now that you have woken my patient I might as well give him some of this." LeBeau groused angrily, shoving Schultz to the side and dragging a chair close to Newkirk's bunk. Climbing up he held the steaming and probably noxious blend near the Englander's lips and cautioned, "It is hot, take it slow." The Frenchman met Newkirk's eyes and the two stalled for a second as Schultz stared in shocked surprise.

When it grew obvious that they had no choice, Newkirk rolled his eyes a little and parted his lips to accept some of the 'cure'.

It burned and tasted terrible, but he managed to get the first swallow down.

"Aw, he _is_ sick!" Schultz declared, shaking his head. "And the other men?" He asked, looking around him and spotting a few empty bunks.

"Even worse. Quarantined in there with the colonel."

"LeBeau! This is terrible!" Schultz opined, sounding genuinely concerned for his prisoners.

"Have some compassion Schultz, please. Tell the Kommandant they need to rest. Recover." Louie fixed a pleading look on his face and looked as pitiful as he could, Newkirk moaning softly for good measure.

"I…I…I will tell him, LeBeau, I will try. But he is very angry, and may not listen to me."

Schultz quietly opened the door and started to duck back out and LeBeau felt himself relax for a second. But, as always, the giant sergeant wasn't done just yet and ducked back in. "If you need any help, cockroach, you may call on me. I…have _already_ had the measles!"

"Merci, Schultz." LeBeau said, trying to look grateful for the offer.

With a lingering paternal look Schultz finally shut the door again and LeBeau scrambled off the chair so that he could again shove it under the doorknob.

"Good Lord, it's burnin' up in here." Newkirk groaned, throwing off his blanket and jumping from his bunk. The other men muttered in general agreement doing the same. Peter quickly went for one of the windows on the other side of the barrack and threw it open a few inches where he and LeBeau stood breathing in the cool air.

"Is what Schultz said true?"

The immediate danger over, the ruse for the moment passing for truth, LeBeau had forgotten for just a few moments the disturbing sight he'd witnessed.

"Oui. It is true. And what is worse…I looked out the door to see Major Hochstetter and his goons dragging an American prisoner into the cooler."

His face comically dotted with red ink, Newkirk's features went pale and blank and he swallowed hard. The noise of conversation in the barracks dwindled to silence as Peter asked, "Which one, Louie?"

"It looked like Colonel Hogan…and he didn't look good."

"What do we do?" Newkirk asked, no longer aware of the oppressing heat or the sickly sweet smell of the boiling water.

"Play it by ear for now. And hope."

A moment later, LeBeau looked back to his English friend and asked, "What happened to your face?"

Newkirk pursed his lips in slight annoyance and held up the pen that he'd managed to keep with him after hurriedly abandoning the radio. "You did say measles, didn't ya?"


	3. Chapter 3

LeBeau knew that the reprieve wasn't going to last long. Kommandant Klink was under too much pressure to take Schultz's word at face value and he would want proof of the so called sickness.

And, even if Schultz was under the impression that Hogan was one of the sick men, Hochstetter would know better.

"Having a Colonel Hogan, where no Colonel Hogan _can_ be won't do us any good. The less we 'know' about why he isn't here, the better." Newkirk argued.

LeBeau, carrying one end of a dummy, considered his statement then nodded reluctantly.

"I suppose." He said, backing into the colonel's quarters and working with some of the other men to set up the second dummy as they had the first. One for Carter, and one for Kinchloe. Each half-dressed in the corresponding night wear of the American soldier they represented.

While Olsen cranked up the stove in the colonel's room and closed all the shutters, LeBeau unscrewed some of the light bulbs in the room to create as much forgiving shadow as possible. A second pot of water was put on the colonel's stove and filled with dirty laundry. The hope was that the soon to be pungent smell might sell the need for quarantine.

To one of the men's doubtful glances LeBeau replied, "If it is unlivable for us, it will be unlivable for the Krauts."

"Right-o." Newkirk whispered in agreement before returning his attention to the face of the man in front of him. His hastily applied makeup job had inspired the need for more of the men to be suffering from measles and Newkirk had been made official costumer. "Best case scenario…we fool the ruddy major and Klink, they leave us alone and we sneak into the cooler the minute the dust settles and spring the colonel."

"Worst case scenario," LeBeau began, feeling his empty stomach twist and turn. "They do something to the colonel before we can get to him."

"And they've already done something to Carter and Kinch. I know, Louie, I know."

An hour later they were still waiting, suffering from the noxious smell of the week-old socks and shirts boiling in the other room and watching the increased activity in the camp through minuscule cracks in the windows.

"You'd think they were expecting the Fuehrer, himself." Newkirk muttered, careful to breathe through his mouth and not his nose. On the bunk below him, LeBeau had begun to turn green, but resolved to grin and bear it. Who knew? Perhaps getting sick on one of the guards would prove there was something going through the camp.

"Ahh, 'ere we are. The friendly Kommandant has finally come to call." Newkirk hummed, then shut the window all the way and curled into his bed, prepared to moan and suffer on cue.

LeBeau grabbed the tray of props he had prepared and shoved the thermometer just under the lid of the boiling pot, watching the mercury. It hit 103 degrees a few seconds before Klink burst through the door.

LeBeau reacted with feigned surprise and launched a barrage of street French at the officer and enlisted men that barged into the barracks, slapping on the lights and searching the bunks. The reaction to the heat and the smell in the building was immediate and, LeBeau had to admit, satisfying.

"Oh…God, that smell." Klink moaned, putting his gloved fingers to his nose. "Schultz, what did these prisoners claim they had?"

Even Schultz looked shocked, certain it hadn't been this bad the last time. "The measles, Herr Kommandant." He barked, saying under his breath, "But it smells more like the black plague in here."

Approaching LeBeau, who added a dramatic twist by swaying a little on his feet, Klink demanded to see the thermometer in his hand and nearly lost his monocle when he read the numbers. "What man did this come from?" He asked, his voice shaking a little as the self-preservation instinct began to kick in.

"Sergeant Kinch." LeBeau seethed, yanking the thermometer back, careful not to touch the end that was still scalding hot from the pot. "He is in there with other very sick men."

"My God, Cockroach, why didn't you call for the medical officer?"

"Trust a Bosch doctor?!" LeBeau sniped, then muttered a few choice insults under his breath. "He would do the same as you, barging into a quarantine area and spreading a terrible disease into the towns and villages."

At the sound of the 'q' word Klink stiffened and turned on his master sergeant. "Schultz, why didn't you tell me this barracks was quarantined?"

"But Herr Kommandant, I, I, I…."

"Shut up! See that proper signs are put on the doors, and that all of you guards are looked over by the camp physician before you leave Stalag 13."

"We will need more medical supplies." LeBeau called, his voice implying that this need should have been Klink's first concern.

Irritated, and clearly in a hurry to get out of the barracks, Klink quickly shoved the problem Schultz's way. "You may give your requisition list to Sergeant Schultz, anything else?"

He was playing a part, yes. Just as he always had. But it irritated LeBeau that nothing had been said about Colonel Hogan. That clearly Klink wasn't going to mention Hogan's presence in the cooler, or his condition, and that the sick men were only the cause of minor friction compared to the bigger to-do in camp.

His bone deep hatred for the Fuehrer, and the army that served him, riled a bit and Louie's voice dropped to an even lower octave. "Oui," He bit out, standing stock still with his arms crossed, "I hope you are the first to get sick, and the last to get better."

That comment was not ignored and the angry look on Klink's face touched a small note of fear in the Frenchman. He had struck a chord, one that Klink wasn't likely to forget anytime soon. It took a moment for Wilhelm to rein in his composure and his voice shook when he replied, "You are lucky that the Gestapo is here…cockroach!"

Klink didn't explain and LeBeau didn't ask. They both knew what he meant. A few minutes after the barracks had emptied of Krauts, Newkirk slid down from his bunk and put a hand on his little mate's shoulder.

"Mighty close, that one…" He said quietly. He could feel the tension thrumming through every muscle and tendon in Louie's body. It was rare for LeBeau to get this angry.

"Oui. Close." LeBeau took a deep breath, then crooked the corner of his mouth up a little. "Come on…we can listen to Klink's quarters until they bring us the medical supplies."

* * *

"Colonel Hogan!" The voice whispering to him was heavily accented, familiar. Oddly enough the voice made him remember that he was hungry.

"Colonel, can you hear me?" Another voice, and he thought of snarky wise cracks and fast paced poker games.

"Hogan, you have to wake up. You are in the way of the door." The food voice…no, not food, French. A small Frenchman…LeBeau!

The second the name appeared in his dream, Robert Hogan jerked awake with a grunt and returned to a world filled with pain, cold and hunger. He opened his eyes to the familiar view of the bars of one of the cells in the cooler, and this time, thankfully, no Major Hochstetter.

"Colonel.." The voice said again and Hogan pushed himself carefully upright, moving off the uncomfortable cot just before it slid to the other side of the cell on a hidden track. Behind it was a door and two of the most beautiful faces he'd seen in a long time. Two seconds later he was irritated as hell to see them because of the risks they were taking. It must have shown clearly on his face.

"What are you guys doing here? Have you lost your minds?"

"The barracks have been quarantined, Colonel. No one will go anywhere near them." LeBeau explained, his voice still hushed, crawling from the opening quickly so that Newkirk could follow. Preceding the Englishman was the glorious smell of fresh baked bread and hard boiled eggs and Hogan's stomach growled loud enough to echo.

"LeBeau, Newkirk…" The Colonel said, the look of consternation turning slowly into a tight smile, "Can't tell ya how good you two look."

Both of his men nodded in response, LeBeau struggling to hide a sudden, prideful grin. Newkirk pushed past the frog in his throat by opening the small paper wrapped bundle of food and pulling at the cork of his canteen, handing it over.

"LeBeau spotted them bringing you in this morning, sir. Hatched a plan at about your speed. Said he thought you were injured." Both men could easily see the gash on the Colonel's temple, cleaned up, but no attempt had been made to stitch it.

Hogan leaned back against the wall and sighed. "The mission went bust, in a big way. _Hochstetter_ showing up clinched that it was a set up." he said before biting deep into a soft, steaming slice of bread.

LeBeau and Newkirk exchanged a glance, each feeling as though they'd just been punched in the gut. They wanted to ask who, and how, but they only had so much time, and there were other concerns.

"We brought medical supplies." LeBeau said, moving to where he could tend to the gash. It didn't take long for a careless jostle to upset the colonel's arm.

Hogan hissed, and stiffened and LeBeau insisted they remove the torn shirt, only to reveal a softball sized bruise engulfing the Colonel's shoulder, and another set of bruises circling his rib cage.

"Did Hochstetter do this?" Newkirk demanded, struggling to keep his voice at a whisper.

"No…" Hogan gave Newkirk a warning glance, getting his breathing under control. "And it wouldn't matter even if he had."

"This has to be set, mon Colonel." LeBeau said quietly, instantly regretting the necessity when he met Hogan's pained glance.

"Yeah, and I'll probably not be any use to you once it's done, so let's talk now, and do that last." As Louie reluctantly went back to treating the head wound, Hogan happily shoved more of the food down his throat and explained what little he understood about what had gone wrong.

"These girls…the nuns…you can trust them?" Newkirk asked, skeptical.

Hogan nodded thoughtfully, "They risked a great deal agreeing to look after Kinch and Carter. Would have risked more if the Gestapo had decided to search the grounds after they nabbed me."

"How badly wounded was Carter?" LeBeau asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Bad…" Hogan said, quietly. "I made sure the girls understood they had to find a doctor if at all possible. The freckled one seemed to know where."

"How shall we contact them, sir?" Newkirk asked, and was surprised at the stern look that overtook Hogan's features.

"You won't. You can't. No radio use from here on out, period. Not until I know exactly how much Hochstetter knows, _and_ who spilled the beans." He paused a moment, drank the last of the canteen of water then admitted, "Hochstetter called me Papa Bear when he first saw me. He's confident enough that he has the leader of the underground, he hasn't even tried to bug the cell."

"Now he wants the rest of the underground." Newkirk said, feeling a chill sink in. Hochstetter had decided he had the leader, and he would stop at nothing to get anything and everything out of Hogan that he could. "Sir…why stay here? Our cover's blown, half of us are blown to bits. We can cut out tonight."

"Colonel, why let yourself be tortured when there is nothing left to save?" LeBeau added.

Louie would later admit that he was mildly surprised when the colonel fell silent for a few minutes, clearly contemplating that this might just be the end of the team that the Allied Command had come to call Hogan's Heroes.

A moment later Hogan sighed and met both their gazes, "Listen fellas, I'm with ya. _Believe me_ , I am. But we've got a lot of scattered pieces to pull together before we can even contemplate pulling out. This is where I want you to start…"

As the colonel explained, Newkirk cleaned up any traces of the food they had brought for Hogan, and stood at the cell door to keep an eye out for any approaching guard. When he finished, a look of green reluctance crossed their CO's face. LeBeau tried a sympathetic smile and helped the colonel to his feet and to the cot before the Frenchman got on one side, and Newkirk on the other.

Getting a grip with his good hand on Newkirk's arm, a piece of leather wrapped wood between his teeth, Hogan gave an assenting nod and LeBeau gave a heave, maneuvering the dislocated shoulder back into place as quickly and forcefully as possible.

To his surprise Hogan was still conscious after the pain had begun to die away, if barely.

"Remember…don' use the radio." He muttered as both corporals eased him onto the cot, giving soft affirmations. "And don' leave camp until you hear from me…"

Again both men nodded in affirmation, gathering what evidence remained of their presence and moving to the cot back to where it had been before their arrival.

"Oh…good LeBeau, food." Hogan breathed, seconds before he passed out, exhausted.

For once LeBeau didn't feel any irritation at the association. Their scattered band was pulling back together again, and even a tiny bit of hope was better than none.


	4. Chapter 4

"Colonel Robert Hogan…we've been over this, yah?"

He'd been given a chair to sit in. The hardwood was a nice reprieve from the stiff canvas he'd spent a few hours sleeping on. He hadn't been tied down or hooked to anything sinister looking yet, but he was certain something was coming. The only thing that worried Hogan was that this was the first time Hochstetter actually had a leg to stand on, _and_ knew it.

Hogan was tired, his ribs and shoulder aching, but not nearly as bad as before. The food had done wonders but he was supposed to be starving and still in pain, so he acted the part, slumping in the chair.

"We've been over it…" He agreed, licking his lips to punctuate a non-existent desperate thirst. In point of fact he more desperately needed to use the restroom.

"Yes, but the name "Papa Bear" seems not to impress you. Nor…Tiger, Mama Bear, or Goldilocks."

"Starting an amusement park?" The American asked.

A contemplative smile spread under Hochstetter's moustache and the short man put his hands behind his back and paced a step or two to the side, beginning a slow circle around the chair.

"Hogan, I have long considered you one of the most dangerous enemies to the Third Reich. Far too much sabotage has happened in this area, with no reasonable explanations, and always you...smirking in the middle of it. And now suddenly I find you fifty miles from where you are supposed to be imprisoned, caught in a trap set by the Gestapo to catch the leader of the underground … _and_ out of uniform."

Without warning a heavily gloved hand slapped down on his bruised shoulder, and it took everything in Hogan to cut off the scream and not lose the battle with his full bladder. The pain was unexpected and intense, and Hochstetter was clearly delighted at catching him off guard.

"You are probably aware, Colonel, that this puts you in violation of the Geneva Convention, and therefore no longer under its protection." As he ground out the last few words, Hochstetter slid his hand away from Hogan's arm and finished the circle, stopping to eye his prisoner.

"Still, I can hardly expect answers from a man dying of starvation or thirst. Guard!"

A pale and concerned Schultz answered the call, stepping into view and casting a cautious glance toward the Colonel. "Yawohl, Herr Major."

"Bread and water for the prisoner and…get him some medical attention. Enough to ensure that he does not die within the next few days."

Schultz stared with regret and dismay at the major before giving a half-hearted salute and muttering, "Yawohl, Herr Major."

"I will stay with the prisoner until you return." Hochstetter stated, returned the salute, then spun efficiently on his heel to face Hogan.

"Ya know, I've always liked you, Major." Hogan said, through gritted teeth, letting a weak smile come to his lips. This one he didn't need to fake. "You're a clever adversary, remarkably loyal for a cold blooded maniac."

The insult brushed by the major like a summer's breeze carrying a whiff of manure, his only reaction an amused snort.

"You don't flounder under scrutiny like Klink, and you can see through flattery. It's…it's just a shame…"

"A shame?"

"You have two main faults, Major, that could get you killed like the proverbial cat. You're far too curious…"

A toothy grin came to the major's face and he chuckled, until the grin looked more like a grimace. "And the other?"

"Paranoia. It can be a killer." Hogan let all the humor drain from his voice, his eyes sharpening.

"Yah…it is also a requirement for joining the Gestapo, Colonel, and to follow your metaphor about the cats. My curiosity and paranoia have caught me a giant mouse. I need only find its nest."

"Best of luck." Hogan said, gathering himself and pushing out of the chair. It took more effort than he liked, and he swayed involuntarily once he reached his feet. But he stayed upright, and clung to the back of the chair with his good arm supporting him, before turning to face the major again. "You can count me out."

Hochstetter smiled, but said nothing, retreating in silence when Schultz returned with the bread and water. As the big man opened the cell door he explained that the doctor was on his way.

"You will stay with the prisoner at all times until I return Sergeant, is that understood?"

"Yah. I..I mean, Yawohl, Herr Major."

Hochstetter tipped his peaked hat in farewell, then left the cooler, his jackboots echoing in the sudden silence of the cement building.

The look that Hans Schultz gave Hogan, nearly broke the American's heart. Looking like he was about to burst into tears, the lovable Kraut set the thin metal tray of food on one end of the cot, then offered his support to the prisoner, guiding him to the waiting canvas.

Once Hogan was safely seated, Schultz checked the hall with one quick glance then pulled the now empty chair closer to the cot and sat.

"Colonel Hogan…are there…" After a moment of hesitation Schultz turned his palm over so that it was parallel to the floor and wiggled his fingers while making a ticking noise.

Hogan couldn't help but smirk and asked, "Bugs? No, Schultz. No bugs."

With a sigh the big man leaned back, "Zer gudt! That major…Er ist ein teufel!"

"Hmm?"

"A devil, Colonel Hogan. I would not even bet that he is human."

"Oh, he's human, Schultz." Hogan said, leaning back slowly until the pressure was off his ribs, before he looked with distaste at the plate of brown, hard bread and stagnate water. Compared to what his own men had provided, this would be like eating sand. Hogan wondered if it was worth it to continue faking starvation just to avoid eating sawdust. "At least his _body_ is human."

The vicious German guard seated before him gave a good-natured chuckle before the sound died. "Eh…there have been rumors, Colonel. And..I overheard what the major was saying to you." Hans sighed and shook his head, sincere pity filling his eyes. "You are…in very big trouble this time."

With a wince Hogan resituated his aching shoulder, pulling his arm closer to his torso before he closed his eyes. "Schultz, we've gotten to know each other over the past few years, right?"

Schultz nodded, his eyes drifting.

"Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

With the look of a man prepared to grant a dying prisoner his final wish, Schultz slapped his thighs with heavy palms and looked expectantly at the Colonel.

"How old were you when you joined the Wehrmacht?"

The question brought a moment of blank faced thought, then a roguish chuckle from the big man. He threw his head back, and his mouth open reliving a hundred memories. "I was…twenty years old. A very young and…handsome boy." He said, bouncing bushy, white eyebrows. "Oh when I first put on that uniform…how the ladies went wild!"

Hogan couldn't help but smirk a little, genuinely fond of the older man. "Yeah, had two or three of them on the side did'ya?"

Some of the rogue slipped away, and Schultz's smile matured. "No…not really. I was just married then, trying to get a good start, expecting to be a papa. Now this was….before the first war…" Schultz rambled on, just as Hogan had hoped he would, and the drone of white noise eventually distracted him from the fear, pain and worry that had been keeping him from focusing solely on the problem at hand.

Who had it been?

Who in the underground had betrayed them to the Gestapo? Which spy had he missed somehow? Or was it a communique, or a slip up on a mission? How far up the chain had Major Hochstetter infiltrated to have slipped in the order to bomb the convent…and why would someone as admittedly loyal as Major Hochstetter risk bombing German citizens, teenaged _nuns_ just to catch Papa Bear?

The move seemed unnecessarily cruel. What was the major's game?

Or…had the explosion been something or someone else? If Hochstetter's plan had been to capture Papa Bear all along he wouldn't have risked blowing the leader of the underground to smithereens. Besides, presuming it was the Gestapo that sent the message, why would they do the underground's dirty work.

No, the explosion hadn't been the major, and Hogan knew it wasn't an accident on Carter's part either.

Both Kinch and a delirious Andrew had insisted that the bomb was still intact and buried under rubble.

Who, then, had attacked the convent? And why?

"Colonel Hogan?"

Who else could have possibly known when and where they were going to be? Had it been an attempted assassination? Could it have been only an accident? A gas pipe blowing at the exact wrong moment?

"Colonel Hogan!?"

It didn't take long to run through the list of people that had been bad luck for Hogan and his men over the years. Most of them, while jinxes to the core, had good intentions-

A hand shook him and Hogan opened his eyes surprised to find that he had closed them. He was even more surprised to realize that he was lying down on the cot again and that the camp physician and Major Hochstetter stood over him.

"The head injury, how did it come about?" The doctor asked, without preamble or introduction.

Hogan squinted up at the man, shifted his gaze to the major, then admitted, "I don't really know."

The doctor nodded, ill-effected by the answer and turned to Hochstetter. "Concussion, a dislocated shoulder that he has since relocated and three cracked ribs. If you want him to live he must have food, real food, and rest. Someplace…" The doctor looked around the room then said, "…warm."

"So we are to pamper this criminal?" Hochstetter asked testily.

"You asked me to tell you his condition, and to do what I can to keep him alive." The doctor shot back, unimpressed with the Gestapo man's bluster.

The major punched his hips with gloved fists and pressed his lips into a thin line, clearly not liking the arrangement at all, but realizing that he didn't have much of a choice.

"Klink!" The major called and Hogan realized that the tall, skinny Kommandant had been in the room all along as well, slinking in the shadows. "You have guest quarters where this man can be kept?"

Wilhelm Klink jutted his chin out as a parade of emotions slid across his face. Fear, mild concern, discomfort and most of all wounded pride. But he chose the wise course and straightened his back. "Of course, Herr Major. My guest quarters are always available for the use of the Gestap-"

"Very good, move the prisoner and station six guards around the building. No exceptions. If this man escapes it will be your head." Hochstetter delivered this death sentence with little compunction then turned to Hogan and offered a sickly smile. "You will have forty-eight hours to recuperate, Colonel, and say goodbye to this…. _home away from home._ Then I will return, and take you to Berlin. There, after some interrogations you will be given a unique honor, _Papa Bear_."

The name jerked a reaction out of Kommandant Klink, but he was ignored.

"Yeah, what's that?"

"You will be the first prisoner of the Gestapo to have an audience with the Fuehrer, just before your _execution_! Get him out of here, Klink!"

The Kommandant barely managed a salute that the Major ignored. And mumbled orders to the two guards with him, following the group out of the cooler.

* * *

From Barracks 2 the parade of prisoner and Krauts alarmed Louie into calling a halt to the factory work in the tunnel below. The men grew quiet and Newkirk climbed halfway up the ladder until he could see the little Frenchman.

"What is it, LeBeau?"

"They are moving the colonel. To Klink's guest quarters."

"Is he alright?"

LeBeau studied the group as they marched across the compound, just barely catching the brief thumbs up that Colonel Hogan flashed toward the barracks. Louie favored Newkirk with a brilliant smile and let out the breath he had been holding. "Oui. All clear. We can get back to work."


	5. Chapter 5

That evening, after two late night roll calls, LeBeau and Newkirk played host to twelve different members of area underground groups. The dozen men and women sat uncomfortably in the largest room the tunnel system afforded, eyeing each other with distrust.

"Ladies and gents I know that this is making the lot of you uncomfortable, and most of you had other plans for the evening but bare with us. You'll understand the situation just as soon as our final member arrives." Newkirk piped, once again offering tea or coffee.

None of them were interested in beverages, and none of them initiated any conversation with their neighbors. It was a tight, awkward silence until they heard a shuffle of steps in the hallway and Hogan's bruised face appeared.

"Fellas." He greeted quietly, scanning the group as he moved to the front of the crowd.

Some of the members began to show signs of recognition, and after realizing who they were meeting with, looked with surprise at the others around them. A murmur of conversation began, but Hogan put up a hand to quiet it.

"Yes…you're all members of the underground, and I'm "Papa Bear". Yes, you're underneath a German POW camp, and yes we're prisoners here. So to speak. My men did a fantastic job of gathering you here, and we'll get to the why in a minute, but there are a few preliminary things we have to get out of the way."

The group fell silent and attentive and Hogan took a deep breath, ordering his thoughts.

"First of all it's important that you all get to know each other. In the past we've intentionally kept everything separate, the idea being to protect the organization should anyone be captured. That plan worked great up until the Gestapo captured the one person who _does_ know everything. Me."

A chuckle burst out of an older gentleman seated near the back of the room. "You? You are captured by the Gestapo?"

"In their custody, as we speak." Hogan said, unable to hide the smirk. The group of resistance fighters joined in a low bubble of laughter at the expense of the German secret police, then fell silent.

"Now, I was well trained by the U.S. Army, but no man is perfect. Before I crack I wanted to give the underground in the area a heads up. Whatever plans you have in the works, best to lay off. If you've got people in hiding, get them to safety as quickly as possible. Pull up stakes, get your people out and consider Stalag 13 and the area around it a no man's land, period."

There was another burst of disgruntled disagreement, and Hogan took it in, in a way glad to hear so much resistance to closing up shop. He'd thought long and hard about it, and still hadn't fully decided if it was the right thing to do. Shutting down the complex network that they had built over the years was not a move he could easily reverse.

"Mr. Papa Bear.." A woman's voice cut over the noise, and Hogan nodded his chin at Gnadige Frau Offal, an older woman who ran a boarding house in Hammelburg. "You are telling us to, as ze Americans would put it, "Bug out" yah?"

Hogan gave her a curt nod.

"Is this move sanctioned by ze Allies?"

Hogan took in a breath and bowed his head, not surprised at the question. He glanced out of the corner of his eye and met LeBeau's gaze. He could feel Newkirk shifting uncomfortably behind his left shoulder and pursed his lips, then shook his head. "No…We've been unable to make contact with the Allies for two days. Our lines of communication may have been compromised, and for the time being we have no way of knowing how or why."

A male voice cleared his throat then spoke from the middle of the group, and after a minute Hogan recognized the pinched accent of Snitzer, the dog man. "Colonel Hogan, you are a fine commander. A talented officer. A good man. You and your men have risked your lives a hundred times over for complete strangers, even for the enemy." All around the group, heads were nodding in agreement. "But you are forgetting something, Colonel. What goes around, comes around. We too know how to risk our lives. We too can be creative and courageous in the face of the enemy."

Humbly, Snitzer got to his feet, holding his hat casually at his side, looking for all the world like nothing more than a bored businessman waiting for a train. His voice, however, filled the dank cavern completely, and dissuaded any argument. "You say we have been compromised? Fine…we will compromise, we will pick up where we have left off, and we will pull together. It is wise to bring us here. Let us see each other's faces. Unite us. This is good. It will make us stronger, Colonel." Snitzer broke off for a moment, looking down to the worn cap in his hands before he said, "I will not run. This resistance is the only reason I can get up in the morning."

His final statement brought an unexpected and vehement chorus of approval, leaving the three prisoners of Stalag 13 in stunned silence. Hogan found himself shaking, and not just because of what he had been through over the past few days. He felt LeBeau and Newkirk drawing a little closer to his frame and nodded respectfully at the collection of insanely brave people before him. He swallowed hard and said, "Thank you. All of you."

"What do you need done, Papa Bear?" A French voice asked, and LeBeau, Newkirk and Hogan jerked their heads to one of the tunnel entrances shocked to see a handsomely built French woman standing in the doorway.

"Tiger!" The three exclaimed, this announcement getting a rise out of the rest of the underground members as well. The blonde woman smiled softly, then quickly hid the reaction, nodding her head in greeting. "We lost contact with you and I was in the area. The French underground, too, is on your side, mon Cherie."

"Je t'aime belle femme. Vous etes comme le lever du soleil!" LeBeau exclaimed, and the colonel couldn't help but grin.

Robert Hogan once more took in the sight of a damp tunnel full of heroes and nodded his head. "Again…thank you. You all know how dangerous this is. It's even more dangerous now. I probably won't be seeing any of you again for…for a while. Til that time you can coordinate with my men. They'll tell you what you can do to help. And I promise…if we all survive this war, the first round is on me."

Only about half of the non-English speakers in the room understood the phrase, but the general goodwill prompted another chorus of celebratory chuckles that dissipated into quiet introductions. Hogan turned to his men and stuck his hand out to first LeBeau, then Newkirk. After a moment of hesitant confusion LeBeau shook the colonel's hand.

"Colonel, what do you mean you won't be-" LeBeau began, dropping his volume.

"Hochstetter has it in mind to take me to Berlin, even offered to introduce me to ol' bubble head." Hogan tried to force a light hearted laugh, but it fell flat. He didn't feel it, and his men didn't want to hear it.

"If I cooperate with Major Hochstetter, that cuts off the chain leading back to you guys." Hogan said, carefully explaining his reasoning as he had with a hundred other plans and schemes. "Once I'm outta camp and the heat is off you, I can think about protecting myself. Maybe I can even make a run for it and tie up Gestapo resources, leading a merry chase, but I can do none of that with my men scattered all over Germany, _or_ risking their lives to protect me."

Newkirk stared at the proffered handshake with his knuckles on his hips for a few moments, not at all happy about it. When he finally reached a hand out he firmly said, "Whatever it takes, sir, I fully plan to bust you out at the first opportunity."

"I wouldn't have expected any less, Newkirk, but I'm _ordering_ you not to. Your first concern is to get Kinch, Carter and those nuns to safety. From there on you know what to do." Hogan said. "I've gotta get back.

"When did Hochstetter say he would be returning?"

"Tomorrow." Hogan said, the word tasting like glue in his mouth.

"Bon chance." LeBeau said, his eyes blazing. "We will come for you."

Hogan smirked a little and warned, "You better not." Before breaking away from his men and heading for the tunnel back to Klink's guest quarters. He was not at all surprised when Tiger stepped into his path.

"You are going?" She asked, fear in her eyes, but a mild, playful smile on her lips.

"Seems I've got a one way ticket to Berlin."

Tiger drew in a surprised breath, suddenly understanding the exchange that had just taken place between Hogan and his men, and looked down to her hands. Hogan followed her gaze and reached out to take her fingers in his own, but instead stared in surprise at the ribbon bound box she held in her hand.

He jerked his head back up, looking askance and Tiger shrugged.

"We had an urgent message and could not reach you by radio. Just in case, I brought extra parts along."

"And the ribbon?"

Tiger smiled. "What woman delivers a present in a plain brown box?"

Womanhood. God how he missed it. It had been far too long, Hogan thought, and he leaned in to capture what might well be the last kiss he would ever receive or give. Tiger melted into him, and they stood in their own world for a blissful eternity until Hogan felt delicate fingers pressing ever so slightly against his collarbone. Pain flashed in his shoulder but he hid it, clearing his throat and pulling away.

"The uh…" Tiger, flustered, cleared her throat as well then said, "The message, I came to deliver. Do you want that as well?"

Hogan rested his hand just under her chin, his finger tips playing with the short spray of blonde hair near her ear. "No…no, the less I know about our…" He paused, glanced over his shoulder at the gaggle of warriors behind him then finished, "…new underground, the better."

"Je comprend." She nodded, pressed another kiss against his lips and pulled away. "I expect to see you again, Papa Bear."

Hogan smiled, and promised, "I'll do my best."

Stepping around the beautiful French woman he gave his men a final salute, which they returned with pride filled snaps to attention. Then Hogan was gone.

Tiger, overwhelmed with emotion and knowing that she herself had a timeline to follow, moved quickly into the room greeting Hogan's men.

She received a warm hug from Newkirk and smiled at his quiet, "Good to see ya, love."

LeBeau greeted her in the traditional French way, and she gave him a hug too, unsettled and vulnerable. She handed Newkirk the radio parts, explaining what they were and why she had brought them.

"And the message?" LeBeau prompted.

"Several days ago we received information about a new Gestapo headquarters near your area. It seemed peculiar that such local information would come to us, but we traced the information anyway, confirming it as best we could. When we tried to relay the information to you we could not get through, and our section head became concerned. I was dispatched to make certain you had not been compromised."

Newkirk and LeBeau glanced at each other. The Englander had felt his gut twist, and thought he knew the answer already, but asked, "Where was this Gestapo headquarters supposed to be, love?"

"Fifty miles south of-"

"Fifty miles south of Stalag 13." Newkirk finished.

"Oui, but how did you-"

"You weren't the only ones to get the message." LeBeau said.

"You've got it, Louie." Newkirk confirmed, then threw an arm around Tiger's shoulders and said, "Listen love, there's a big favor you could do for us…"

As the Englander and the French woman walked away Louie looked to the local underground members and with a few words gathered them together. The time had come to bring their lost brothers home.


	6. Chapter 6

"So, you enjoyed your little reprieve, Colonel?"

Hogan kept quiet, arms crossed, hands tucked into the warmth of his armpits. The only reason he was warm now was because he'd been allowed to retrieve his uniform before leaving Stalag 13. He had been under constant guard in the barracks and was searched twice by two different soldiers, before he was shoved into the back of Hochstetter's car. As nice as the forty-eight hours of rest might have been, he'd spent most of it awake and worrying about his men.

Now he was exhausted, achy and not in the mood to pander to Hochstetter's ego.

A great way to test a man, Hogan thought, was to ignore him and see what he did in response. It was about time that he started to get to know this particular enemy a little better, Robert thought, and closed his eyes.

Hochstetter didn't respond to the insult and it wasn't long before Hogan was dozing lightly.

Three hours passed in silence and they should have been approaching Leipzig, but when Hogan opened his eyes he saw miles of forest, and nothing else. 'What, were they taking a back route?' he wondered. When he glanced over at the major the man was lost in thought, staring out the window. Not at all concerned about his prisoner, or their destination.

An hour and a half later they were preparing to cross the border into Austria. The town seated at the border bustled with the afternoon rush hour and the car slowed to a crawl. Austrians desperate to get back home after a long day pretending to support their Arian brothers, sat patiently in their cars ignoring the dismal scenery.

Railroad buildings lined the road on one side, and a giant textile mill on the other. Ahead Hogan could see several bridges rising over the Danube and Inn Rivers. This close to a border crossing was not an ideal place for an American POW to try to disappear but it was better, Robert was sure, than wherever Hochstetter intended him to go.

Hogan studied the major quietly without actually looking at him, waiting for the right moment. It came when a series of Hitler Youth on bicycles went flying past the car, loudly taunting the drivers at random. Hochstetter leaned toward the window and Hogan leaned into his door, popping the latch.

He heard a hollow 'click click' before he could launch himself into the street and looked back to find a Luger trained at his back, along with Hochstetter's full attention.

"This is Passau, Germany, Colonel. The hometown of Herr Hitler. What do you think would happen if you were to be discovered here?"

On second thought….

Hogan pulled the door closed until it latched and gently lifted his hands into the air, waiting until the gun lowered before he clasped his hands in front of him.

"My mistake, Major. I've never been to this part of Germany."

"It is a cesspool, I don't blame you." Hochstetter commented, then returned his attention to his own musings out the window.

They passed quietly through Passau and into Austria, picking up speed for another hour and a half before they slowed outside the city of Linz.

Hogan had been studying Hochstetter while he furiously tried to plan an escape. The man had stopped gloating the minute they left Stalag 13, growing silent and more serious with each mile. Now his face was white, and his jaw so tightly clinched that his neck looked swollen. A wisecrack came quickly to mind but Hogan ignored it. Something was wrong.

The architecture out the window had changed, reflecting the resources of the country. More lime, stone and brick, than wood, and unlike countries to the east, Austria was relatively untouched by the war.

Hogan jumped when the car passed a line of shuffling prisoners, their bodies bursting into his field of vision unexpectedly. Dressed in striped rags, chained at the ankle, and coated in white dust, the men looked like walking ghosts. Each with a red triangle sewn to his sleeve. Before they had passed the procession at least one of the prisoners had collapsed, bringing the group to a halt.

They left the city a few minutes later, passing only a half mile of thick forest before the land opened up, raw and broken from relatively recent construction. Then he saw the camp. Nothing more than a glimpse of a guard tower and a short row of barracks, but he had a good idea of what he was looking at.

"Where are we, Hochstetter?" Hogan demanded, an unspoken warning in his voice.

"Just outside Linz, Austria, Colonel Hogan. This is a labor camp for prisoners of the Third Reich. It is called Gusen."

Barbed wire, white washed buildings, shadows that had once been human beings shaved bald and dressed in striped rags. "It's a concentration camp."

"Yah." Hochstetter said, finally meeting Hogan's eyes. To the American's surprise all he saw was a carefully controlled, blank expression.

"You can't put a POW in a concentration camp…" Hogan said carefully.

"You are no longer a POW, you are a spy. A criminal. This is precisely where you should go!" Hochstetter barked viciously, then snapped a string of orders in German to the driver who responded with frantic, muffled affirmations.

Hogan felt his heart start to pound faster, making his ribs hurt. He was scared. It wasn't a feeling he liked, and normally his solution would be to reason his mind away from the fear. Just as he was coming up with his first logical argument for not being afraid they passed through a series of stone and barbed wire fences, each one guarded by well-armed SS men.

No one in Germany could ignore the rumors of concentration camps. LeBeau had come to Stalag 13 with his own horror stories of the labor camps in France. Some camps, so the rumors went, had been built for the sole purpose of exterminating mass numbers of people. All the people that Adolf didn't want in his fatherland.

Labor camp or death camp the running theme had been that nobody who went in the gates, ever made it out again. The point was either to _put_ you to death, or _work_ you to death.

Hogan took a deep breath and tried not to fidget. This had to be Hochstetter's way of getting payback for the ample number of times that Hogan and his men had nearly brought him to ruination. It also explained why Hochstetter had been so content to sit back and wait.

The car drew to a squeaking halt outside an administration building that was separated from the rest of the large camp complex by barbed wire topped granite walls. Hogan was jerked out of the back by the driver and Hochstetter took his time stepping out of the other side of the car, looking over the compound as if he were returning home. Or so Hogan thought until the major turned around and Hogan saw his face.

Disgust was what he read there. Disgust, but a determination to go through with it. Hogan was baffled as he was led into the administration building and down a corridor. He caught a brief glimpse of a stern faced secretary and another hallway extending beyond her, then was shoved towards an iron door that opened for him, and shut behind him.

The room he now stood in was lit by a single bare bulb. The walls were stone, and the room bare of any furniture or decoration. The door was the only opening, and was being locked and guarded. There was so much nothing in the room, Hogan immediately felt his hopes plummet. Despite his fear, the trip down had been a feast for eyes that rarely saw anything in the way of variety. To go from that, to this. Hogan wondered if it wouldn't have been better to risk getting shot by Hochstetter, or caught by German forces in Passau, than to be consigned to this nothing.

It took a bit for his eyes to adjust and pick out the handmade 'décor' that he hadn't seen before. Etchings, scrapes, claw marks. A hundred messages left by a hundred previous occupants, some scrawled over top others. Written in Polish, German, Russian and several languages he couldn't recognize, let alone read.

Hogan stepped close to the wall and ran his fingers over the gouges, wondering vaguely how long it would be before he felt the need to add his own legacy.

In the end he wouldn't get the chance. He was in the room less than two hours before an SS guard opened the door and tossed a set of striped clothes into the room.

"You will change. Leave your clothing by the door."

Then he was shut in again with a clang.

Hogan walked over to the pile immediately spotting the lice, a few moths camped out in the folds and ugly stains around the armpits and crotch. There was no way, he thought, kicking at the pile until he found the red triangle that he was looking for. Exactly like that worn by the work detail he had passed.

He was left alone for ten minutes before the door opened again. The guard stared at him, then at the pile of untouched rags on the floor, then shut the door presumably to go and inform his superior. Minutes later the door opened and Hochstetter stepped in. Behind him was a string of guards, big beefy types that the major directed with a single wave of the hand.

They chased Hogan into a corner and overwhelmed his desperate struggle with sheer numbers. His arms pulled hard behind his back, Hogan was forced into the center of the room. One of the guards had taken his hat and handed it over to Hochstetter.

"Take off the jacket." Hochstetter ordered.

Hogan fought, stepping on toes, biting anything that came in reach of his mouth, clipping one guard in the chin with the back of his head before they managed to rip the bomber jacket away.

"The ribs on the left side." Hochstetter stated, then nodded his head.

One of the guards produced a set of brass knuckles and came at Hogan swinging. The colonel desperately tried to protect his already wounded side. The first punch that found its mark hurt like hell and knocked the breath from his lungs. The guard didn't stop until they all heard the snap of bone breaking. Then, coldly and efficiently the guard nodded to Hochstetter and stepped away.

Hogan couldn't breathe. He was wheezing and each breath sliced through his core like a hot poker. He felt like he was going to puke, and was spitting blood out of his mouth. He'd bit the inside of his cheek, but it didn't matter where the blood came from. At least one of the guards holding him seemed to get gleeful at the sight of crimson.

The one thing that Hogan couldn't comprehend was the major. He wasn't gloating. He hadn't enjoyed the physical maltreatment of the American. He had in fact flinched when the guard finally broke a rib. The man was acting like a conflicted human being, and not the devil Schultz thought him to be.

"Take the _gefangniskleidung_ with you, and wait in the outer office. I will call when I need you." Hochstetter ordered, standing like a statue as the flood of SS soldiers left the room, taking only the striped rags with them. Hogan was allowed to collapse to his knees, and he threw out his right hand to keep himself from going face first into the concrete.

He wasn't sure when he was going to pass out, but was fairly certain it would happen. He didn't bother to look up when the door closed. He heard Hochstetter swallow audibly, and was shocked when the German's voice quaked. "You have held up well, Hogan. Admirably."

Between pained, shallow breaths, Hogan managed to demand, "What?" He lifted his head, finally, squinting at the face almost obscured by the brightenss of the bare bulb. Hochstetter suddenly looked remarkably unsure of himself. He stood with his hands hanging at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching.

"Some of us have heroes, Hogan." Hochstetter blurted. "Legends. People that in our minds can do no wrong, but in reality, act as nothing but disappointment."

Hogan was growing disgusted. He didn't understand any of what Hochstetter was blabbering about, and the major himself seemed so lost in what he was trying to say. Hogan suddenly wanted to know why he had to have a rib broken before he was forced to listen to this.

He had to try to get up. If for no other reason than to find a corner very far away from the major to faint in.

"Papa Bear…the master of the underground. When I first heard the code name I assumed that it had to represent many people, not just one man. Then when I suspected that he was working out of, or very near Stalag 13. It was so incredibly impossible to imagine that Papa Bear might actually be an allied prisoner, and yet all the evidence…" Hochstetter trailed off, watching the colonel half crawling to the wall where he painfully struggled to his feet. He could do nothing to help the American, he knew. And was just as certain that Hogan wouldn't accept his help either.

"Anyone talented enough to run the underground from a prison, and loyal enough to do so without trying to escape himself. I made it my duty to discover this man. To be absolutely sure of who it was, and to catch him in the act of sabotage so that everything would be in order."

"Is this going in your autobiography, Hochstetter?" Hogan bit out through the pain, not yet able to straighten his back, but on his feet, leaning heavily against the wall. "You'll have to forgive me…but I'm not up to taking dictation at the moment."

The major stared at him then quietly responded, "No…nor will you enjoy the rest of what I have to say but…I.." The man fell silent long enough that Hogan was forced to look up at his face again and he was shocked to see the Gestapo man swimming in emotional turmoil, desperately struggling to maintain his composure.

Angrily Hogan said, "I thought the Gestapo had strict rules about enlisting human beings, Major. Isn't there something in the NAZI handbook about viewing anyone who looks different, sounds different, or thinks different as subhuman? You're starting to act an awful lot like one of the little people." Hogan was riled. He was hurting and tired and stuck in a freezing hole with no hope of rescue or escape and the man that had put him in that state was suddenly eliciting undeserved pity. It was a mind game, Hogan was sure of it, and he fought it, letting the rage consume him.

"Don't tell me you just grew a conscience on the drive down!"

"No." Hochstetter said briskly, coming to a decision. "In that you are correct, Colonel, there are consequences and I will have to accept them."

Hogan's head was spinning. Nothing made sense to him anymore and his side was on fire.

Hochstetter must have noticed. He quickly closed the distance between himself and the prisoner, dropping his volume and putting out a hand to steady the man. "Before you pass out there is something you should know, Colonel. As much as I would like to house you in comfort, for appearances sake I can not. I will keep you alive and see that you keep your uniform. You are here for a purpose, a special mission that you will accomplish or die trying. You have no choice in this matter, Colonel, and you should consider the safety of your men as my…collateral."

"Collateral?" Hogan was sinking to the floor. Getting closer to the hard surface so that when he did black out he wouldn't cause more damage than Hochstetter had already done. He could feel the major helping him, supporting his descent until Hogan was seated on the hard floor, leaning back against the wall.

"We will speak again, Hogan. I will explain all that I can, but for now, there is much to be arranged."

The muscles in Hogan's back seized, no longer capable of supporting him and protecting the broken rib. The pain put Hogan out quickly, leaving him in a confused, but blessedly painless, darkness.


	7. Chapter 7

Carter was running. As fast as he could go, his lungs bursting from his chest, and the tiger tank was gaining on him. Something so big and lumbering shouldn't have had that much speed and agility. The row of shark-like teeth and the clawed-talons on the outstretched gun barrels were hardly regulation either, but he didn't find it prudent to slow down and point it out. No, running was best, and Carter felt like he had been doing it for days.

He was exhausted and starving, dying of thirst, and his legs hurt. One, oddly enough, more than the other. In fact, if he really stopped to think about it, it was his right leg that was hurting specifically. Must have been that old bombing injury acting up, Carter told himself.

Wait. Bombing injury?

"It's alright, Andrew. Calm down. I'm back now."

The phrase reached Carter's ears and instantly the tank disappeared. The source of panic and fear left him and Carter relaxed, opening his eyes.

Above him he saw familiar sturdy wooden beams, joining in a V. Insulation made of old newspapers and dried clay, filled the panels of the ceiling between the beams. Carter could make out an old advertisement for a woman's underthings, on a corner of newspaper that escaped the shellacking.

"Kinch?" He asked, able to hide most of the panic in his voice.

"Right here." The voice said again and Sergeant Andrew Carter raised his head up to see Kinch's forehead, then shoulders appear over the lip of the edge of the floor, one hand carrying a small, cast iron pot billowing steam. "You're making enough noise to wake the dead rollin' around up here, what were you doin?"

"Runnin'" Carter explained, a little exasperated. That's all he had _been_ doing since the explosion.

Kinch carefully climbed the rest of the way into the narrow loft and crouched so that he could get to his buddy without beaning himself on the head, a talent that had taken time to develop. "What were you runnin' from this time?"

"It was a tiger tank," Carter explained, working his elbows under him and his back off the thin mattress laid against the floorboards. He was starving, per usual, and vaguely recalled Kinch promising soup for their next meal. "But only this one was really fast, and had shark teeth and claws!"

"Shark teeth, huh?" Once Carter had raised himself up far enough Kinch slid past him, wedging his muscular frame into the space between Carter's back and the wall. Letting Carter lean back against his shoulder Kinch produced a tin, telescoping cup and handed it to the smaller man, then pulled out his own. "When we get back I think we oughta limit how much time you're allowed to spend reading those encyclopedias."

The cups were contraptions that had been handed to Andrew's unit by the US Army the day they were equipped in London, and not a man amongst them had ever thought they would be used. Except for Carter. Carter loved them. He thought the design was ingenious, and happily spent a day collecting and stowing every one of the things that he could get his hands on.

When he was captured by the German Luftwaffe he'd still had three or four secreted away on his person in their collapsed position. After joining the group at Stalag 13 he'd made sure to carry at least two with him on every mission. The other men, Newkirk chief among them, had regularly mocked him for this practice but he'd done his best to ignore them, knowing that some day the silly things would come in handy.

Since Carter's fever broke four days ago the cups had been the most valuable tools he and Kinchloe had.

Taking turns, each man dipped his cup into the steaming pot, licking the outsides to catch the precious drips of broth before slowly consuming what little food was left. The ladies always ate first, something that both sergeants insisted on.

"How far did'ya go today?" Carter asked, after a few moments of appreciative silence.

Behind him Kinch sighed, feeling the first few swallows of soup hit his empty belly. "About fifteen miles before we saw troop movements and decided to turn back."

"SS?"

Kinch nodded as he drank another gulp of broth then said, "Probably still hopin' to catch the rest of us."

"Bad enough they got the colonel."

"Yeah I know…"

"Why do they have to be so greedy? Why can't they just be satisfied and move on?" Carter griped angrily.

After the first servings were gone, meager as they were, both men drank heavily from their canteens, taking on as much water as they could before scraping the pot. There wouldn't be another meal until the following night.

One Bavarian veterinarian had graciously taken in the two American escapees and the seven novices. In a country already suffering from deprivation, taking on nine mouths to feed would have been unthinkable to most, but Dr. Felix Bruninger was the exception.

True to Liesel's word the doctor was compassionate and giving, professing a faith in Christianity, and a life philosophy that allowed him to do no harm to his fellow man. As Carter had said, after first meeting the doctor, "He's a good sorta joe."

He was also, as it turned out, Liesel's uncle. The freckle faced fifteen-year-old who had helped them hide from the Gestapo, had immediately volunteered her Uncle's services when she finally understood what it was that Kinch was requesting.

The long hours and days that followed their arrival on the farm had been nightmarish for all of them, feeling more like a month than a week. Finding food, avoiding patrols, keeping the girls occupied and united despite their fears, and most of all, keeping Carter alive, had meant one unending task after another. Now that they were past it Kinch could hardly believe they'd survived it.

"Found something that might work with that transmitter though. Thought we could take a look at it, maybe go for another walk in a bit." Kinch offered carefully, watching the back of Carter's head, and wincing at the silence that stretched between them.

The injury to Carter's leg had been severe. Less than an hour after the unexpected explosion he had lost a dangerous amount of blood, and the trip to Bruninger's farm had been excruciating for the young NCO. Carried much of the way over Kinchloe's shoulder, Andrew had begged endlessly for Kinch to stop and leave him by the side of the road.

For three days Carter had been immobile and semi-conscious, gripped hard by fever and endless night terrors. In every one of those terrors he was running, desperately trying to get away. He'd kicked his blankets off, and his wound open, more times than Kinch could count.

His first relatively peaceful night was a God send.

"Carter, Dr. Bruninger said the walks will help you heal. The last one wasn't so bad, and I need you on your feet if we're going to get back to the Stalag."

"Why can't we use the truck, like you've been doin'?"

"The two of us drivin' through Germany in a farm truck? That's not going to draw attention?"

Carter was quiet for a bit, playing with the tattered edge of the hole in his pant leg. "Who wants to go back to Stalag 13 anyway?"

"Carter!" Kinch reprimanded, his voice quiet if surprised. "Where else are we gonna go? Home? Become deserters?"

"No…no I meant…well I meant that we should be goin' after Colonel Hogan. Not messin' around with Klink and them."

Kinch sighed and reached his hand up to knock forward the cracked leather cap on Carter's head. When the bill fell forward and smacked into his nose Carter smirked and snorted softly, then gathered his reserves and slowly began to rotate until his back rested against the wall next to Kinch. His leg was painful to move, but not as bad as it had been.

"Even if we can get that radio transmitter working…" Kinch shook his head. "Colonel Hogan said no radio contact except for emergencies before we left. LeBeau and Newkirk have been holdin' down the fort _alone_ now for a week, assumin' Colonel Hogan didn't escape and make it back to them. Who knows what's happened in that time."

Carter watched his fellow sergeant as he trailed off, not willing to think the worst, but also aware of how much more likely the worst was. He ducked his chin to his chest and thought about it for a minute before he said, "Well… _we_ had it pretty bad didn't we?"

Kinch coughed and laughed at the same time, not dignifying the comment with an answer, though Carter caught the edge of a smile.

"And…and we're still here…" Andrew offered, finishing the thought. After a moment Kinch turned his head to look at him, a bewildered smile on his face.

"The always positive Andrew Carter…I don't know what I would'a done without you."

The embarrassed smile creased Carter's face, and he quietly said, "Thanks, Kinch." Causing the bigger man to chuckle.

"You're somethin' else, Carter."

Carter took a breath to respond but was cut off when the bell mounted on the barn door below started to jingle. Part of an alarm system they had hooked up after the first patrol came by the farm to look for escaped prisoners, the bell meant that someone was coming down the long farm lane, and they needed to douse lights and hide in the hay loft, fast.

Carter gritted his teeth and swung his legs back out of the way as Kinch scrambled for the ladder, skirting down it quickly and grabbing the lantern by the door. He'd extinguished the flame and set the lantern high out of sight before the bell stopped ringing.

Finding the ladder again in the darkness was a fun trick that he finally managed after knocking over a pitchfork and upsetting a small hay stack.

Carter had crawled to the end of the loft to punch open the hay elevator doors, letting in a little moonlight and giving them a view of the farmhouse and the pair of headlights approaching the building. "Looks like a troop truck." Carter whispered.

Over the treetops of a small orchard Kinch and Carter could just make out the roof of the machine shop and garage, and the dark, taut canvas of a military vehicle. An armed guard stood near the back of the truck, staring out at the empty fields, and Kinch could see another soldier sitting behind the wheel of the truck.

"Look at the driver, Andrew, he seems kinda squirrely."

"Yeah, nervous." Carter agreed, then spotted an officer striding through the gap between the machine shop and the house. "Oh geeze!" Without explanation Carter snapped the doors shut again and lay still, shushing Kinch loudly when the man questioned his actions.

"Carter…!"

"Kinch!" Carter hissed, his voice squeaking despite his efforts to be as quiet as possible. "That's a general out there!"

"What!?"

"With all kindsa fancy metals, and gold braid. A real, honest to God, general!"

"In a troop truck!?" Kinch demanded, then reached over Carter's form to shove the doors back open again. "I don't see a general."

Carter raised his head just high enough to see over the lip of the door frame, then ducked back down. "Then he musta gone into the house, but I swear, Kinch-"

"Shh, there's Liesel!"

Carter gave Kinch a look of desperate alarm. "She's outta the house?"

"Yeah, comin' across the fields." Kinch said through gritted teeth, suddenly vicious. "With a Kraut."

"A WHAT!?"

"Come on, Andrew. Ready or not, we gotta go." Kinch urged, grabbing what few belongings they had come in with and backing toward the ladder. He vaguely remembered where that pitchfork was, and could probably get the drop on the German soldier before he could get his gun aimed in the right direction.

What he was going to do with Liesel, Kinchloe didn't know, but he tried to hope that she was leading the Kraut into a trap, and not leading the German to their hiding place.

Carter was slowly making his way down the ladder one rung at a time, moving as quietly as he could. Kinch kept his ear on Andrew and his eye on the door, picking a good spot to jump the German from once the door opened.

"Je ne sais pas comment vous remercier, Mademoiselle. Vous avez sauve la vie."

"French?" Kinch couldn't help but mutter. The voice coming through the barn door was familiar, and chatting to Liesel in amiable Parisian French.

Liesel responded easily, "Ils sont de bons hommes. Ce fut un honneur."

Before the Kraut could open the door, Kinch did it for him, staring in wonder and delight at the smallest German corporal he'd ever seen.

LeBeau gave him a look of surprised shock, that became a joyful smile a second later. "Kinchloe! You made it, mon amie!"

"Hey, is that Louie!?" Carter shouted and Kinch grinned and went after Andrew, helping him walk to the door.

"Andrew!" LeBeau said, grinning ear to ear. "We were worried sick about the both of you. You couldn't have found a more obvious place to hide?"

"Next time we'll put up a flag." Kinch said with dry sarcasm. "Was that Newkirk dressed up like a general?"

"Oui, it was his idea. And a long story. We have to get back to the truck and camp, quickly, but I can tell you all about it on the way."

The men moved without needing further encouragement, LeBeau on one side and Kinch on the other, helping Carter over the rough ground.

"What about Colonel Hogan?" Carter asked, grinning. "Is he the one dressed as a guard?"

The look LeBeau gave them caught Kinch off guard, but it slowed Carter down to a halt. "Colonel Hogan's not with ya?" Carter demanded, drawing away from the other two.

"Non, Carter…" LeBeau said, looking apologetically to Kinch. "He was captured by the Gestapo…they…took him to Berlin."

A disbelieving, "What!?" Came from both sergeants at the same time.

"There is a lot I have to tell you, but we have to get back to camp before morning roll call!"

"No way!"

"Carter…" Kinch groaned. There wasn't time for _this_ again.

"What's the point in gettin' ourselves locked up again if Colonel Hogan is out there needing our help!?" Carter snapped back, stubbornly taking an awkward limp back toward the barn.

"Because the underground has pulled together to make this rescue happen. Because without their help there is _nothing_ we can do for Colonel Hogan!" Louis whispered back harshly. "We _have_ to go! Vite!"

Carter didn't like it, but he complied retracing his steps until he could lean on Kinch and LeBeau.

"Took your bloody time about it.." Newkirk muttered anxiously as they passed him. The well dressed Englander ran ahead to tell the others in the back of the truck to make room for three more and they quickly passed Carter over the tailgate. Kinch followed, turning to hold his hand out to Liesel.

The girl stepped back and shook her head. "No, I….Monsiuer…" She said, abruptly addressing herself to LeBeau. "Je vais rester ici. Avec mon oncle. Donner les filles a leurs familes."

LeBeau nodded, and affirmed, "Tres bien, Mademoiselle. Bon chance!" He climbed into the back of the truck just as Newkirk climbed into the front, and a moment later the engine started and the truck began to rumble back toward the road.

"What'd she say?" Kinch demanded over the noise.

"She wished to stay with her uncle." Louis translated, then looked to the group of bleary eyed, blanket wrapped girls trying to get comfortable in the back of the truck. "For them…we are now storks."

"Storks!?"


	8. Chapter 8

True to Hochstetter's word, Hogan kept his uniform. He was in and out of consciousness for twenty-four hours before he was able to stay awake long enough to have a meal. His bomber jacket and cap were returned to him along with his ration of thin potato soup and a hard square of bread.

The hospital was well populated. Most of the prisoners suffered from malnutrition, pneumonia, dysentery or all three. In retrospect, Hogan was one of the healthiest men there, including the doctor and his three aids. All four men were prisoners themselves, in better condition only because they had more access to the few medicines provided, and better rations.

There were no pain killers to be had, he was told, and Hogan's presence was clearly an imposition to the already overworked hospital staff. The pain of the busted rib would be debilitating if Hogan didn't find a way to overcome it, so he did what he could to be useful. His first day on the 'job' he emptied the overflowing bed pans at a snail's pace.

Bathed in sweat and stopping frequently he forced his mind onto other things. Escape, Hochstetter's mysterious mission, impotent worry over the safety of his men, anything to push the pain to the background.

By the end of the day the doctor and aids took pity on him and he was slipped a syrette of morphine halfway through the night. The tiny aluminum toothpaste tube, probably preserved from what remained of a field medic's kit, wasn't sealed, but the needle was unused and the sweet bliss of the injection made the day's agony a mere memory.

The following morning he was forced to stand for roll call with the other hospitalized prisoners, and spent the two hours standing in a puddle of water, supporting another prisoner that had fainted halfway through.

Robert Hogan had always believed in the importance of first impressions and had been careful to cultivate his. First and foremost he did what he could to establish that he only spoke English. The decision vastly limited the types of prisoners that would even attempt to communicate with him, but opened the mouths of those who spoke German, but never in the presence of any of the guards. He learned more as a dummkopf American fly on the wall, than a spy.

Most of the 'old' prisoners in the hospital were political enemies of the Fuehrer, transferred to Gusen while it was being built. The new prisoners were almost entirely Russian POWs and those recently labeled as traitors to the German war effort.

Even the doctor and his aides were prisoners, sent from Mauthausen, the old camp. The doctor, Wilhelm Bogden, was German born, London educated, and spoke both languages flawlessly. He had a weakness for America and happily befriended the colonel, keeping the wounded man up well into the wee hours of the morning of Hogan's third night in the camp, discussing benign lore about the 'American Colonies'.

Neither man delved into his personal life, or his past. What mattered most, as Bogden said, was the future. Survival.

Hogan was permitted five days of 'rest' in the hospital before SS guards moved him into a smaller barracks near the north wall of the camp. This, as it turned out, was Gusen's idea of officer's barracks.

Outside the hospital, the camp was split into two main areas. One reserved for POWs and the other for political prisoners. On the POW side of the camp the men were still clad in their uniforms, and none of them forced to wear any camp insignia or badges. Low granite walls were topped with what Hogan assumed was electrified fencing and barbed wire, the walls redundant in most areas.

Marched into the grassless clearing inside the perimeter of guard towers and gates, Hogan's ears were assaulted with a barrage of Russian insults, aimed at the Krauts escorting him to his new home. Three main barracks were set up in a U formation in the geographical center of the POW compound. The stone-base, wooden buildings stretched to two stories, with a balcony running the length of the second story.

The courtyard inside the U and every inch of space on the balcony was occupied by Russian bodies, a sea of men staring at the newest addition. Hogan studied their faces openly, calculating body language, facial features, physical attributes and group dynamic. He'd been in Stalag 13 too long, he realized, overwhelmed. He'd spent too much time with the same men, the same Kommandant, the same rules.

The officer's barracks were set apart from the massive U. A single story barrack with two doors and four windows. Two on the front, and one on each end. Men lounged here too, but with a little more decorum about their posture, and in absolute silence.

There might have been a set of stairs drawn into the plans for the building, but they had never been built, forcing Hogan to take on the two and a half foot step up. An interesting challenge with a broken rib.

None of the Russian prisoners offered to help him, and Hogan made no attempt to ask for it. Once inside he paused to lean against the first bunk he came to, wrapping his arm protectively against his side until the throbbing began to die down.

Compared to the overcrowding of the enlisted men's area, the officer's barracks seemed spartan, even with every bunk filled. Hogan stayed near the door, watching his SS escort depart, until he could stand straight again.

Being the only American in the camp did not always, apparently, make him a tourist attraction. While not completely ignored, he hadn't been greeted by anyone, revealing a lack of official organization. Hogan expected some of it. Doctor Bogden had intimated that the camp population grew exponentially in waves, even as disease rippled through the ranks. With that much turnover, establishing command over so many men would seem insurmountable. And Hogan was another new man. Unless he survived the prerequisite first week in the barracks, he was nothing more than a dead man walking.

Colonel Hogan was exhausted and would have given anything for a small corner to lie down in. Half the bunks were occupied, and those that weren't quickly became so as he approached them. He wasn't welcome, clearly, and he didn't particularly care to stay either, but it seemed for the moment that he didn't have a choice.

It came as a genuine surprise when a lieutenant suddenly stepped away from his bunk and snapped a salute, then of all things, smiled at him. Hogan returned the salute, casting a glance around the room before he looked closer at the young, relatively healthy Russian. Then he smiled himself.

"Lt. Igor Piotkin…" Hogan said, unable to stop the triumphant laugh that escaped him. "I thought we sent you to the Russian front?"

Igor nodded, looking somewhat abashed, dark eyes sparkling. "Dah, you did. But…I fly again, I am shot down again…"

Hogan laughed a second time, despite the discomfort it caused, and studied the man closely. His slow recognition of the Russian pilot was understandable. The man had been fifty pounds heavier, and a lot younger when Robert had last seen him. The camp had aged him unnaturally and Piotkin now bore a badly healed scar over his left eye. "How long have you been here?"

Igor spread his arms out and sighed. "Six month, seven...I lose track of big numbers...count by meals here." The Russian put a still powerful hand on Hogan's shoulder and smiled wanely. "I thought being stuck in Germany is bad...but there...is like heaven. Here? Hell."

"Sounds like your English has improved."

"Dah!" Igor brightened, "Der was Englishman here, highest ranking...Good man, but...sick. He die...month past."

"A month ago you mean?"

"Dah! Ago, month ago." Igor nodded practicing the word a few times before he swept his hand toward the north corner of the building. "Please, we don't have empty bunk, but I will share with you. Come."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Hogan said, meaning it more than he realized. In the back of his mind he was realizing that this was what it felt like to be any one of hundreds of men that had passed through Stalag 13's underground center. Igor himself had been one of those men, and like Hogan, had been the lone representation of his nation at the time. Unlike Igor, Hogan hadn't come into the camp armed, and he had yet to bite anyone. A few of the men looked like they might bite _him_ , though.

Piotkin had next to nothing in the way of possessions but he cleared what he had off the blanket that covered the thin mattress of his bunk. Hogan took his time sitting down, resting his back against the barrack wall. The Lieutenant watched closely with concern and curiosity and finally asked, "You were shot down?"

"Blown up." Hogan said, smirking a bit at the Russian's reaction. Their conversation had attracted the attention of Piotkin's upper bunk mate, and the colonel assumed that the man must know a little English too. "And then I was given a camp welcome from a Gestapo man I've come to know and revile."

"Gestapo.." Igor shuddered theatrically. At a curious look from his bunk mate, Igor translated some of the story into their native tongue, and the second man shuddered as well. "They do not fight like men. They fight like badgers. Turn Russians against Russia."

Another string of Russian echoed their way, this time from across the narrow aisle that separated the bunks into rows. Igor nodded vaguely over his shoulder and said, "That man, Ivan, is bomber...drops bombs...his brother joined with him, to drop bombs too. Then disappear from ranks. Ivan parents get letter four month ago-"

"Four months later..." Hogan corrected quietly, but Igor shook his head.

"Ago, ago." He insisted patiently. "Four months _ago_ they get message. Their son join German army, was killed in action. Ivan find out...he drop bomb on his brother."

Hogan said nothing, there was nothing to say. He had his own reasons for hating the different and more seedy parts of the German war machine and he knew he wasn't alone.

"Your...uh...your men. They were...blown up too?" Igor asked carefully.

Hogan smiled softly and shook his head.

Igor took a deep breath and nodded with relief. "They are good men. Do good work."

The Russian fell silent and Hogan was grateful. Hochstetter had put him in the camp for a reason, and while Hogan suspected it was something more complicated than simply prying more information about the underground out of him, he wasn't about to take any chances. The operation at Stalag 13 might have been hanging by a thread, but it _was_ _still_ operating. Hogan wouldn't allow himself to be the reason it came to an end.

"This Gestapo man…this _ublyudok._ He bring you here?"

Hogan nodded, surprised at the disturbed look the Russian was giving him.

"Why not to Berlin?" Igor asked.

"Yeah, I've been…trying to figure that out myself, Igor. You wouldn't happen to have any boiled water available, would ya?"

Igor blinked at the request then looked around him, "Water we have, Colonel…but no boil. We can have no fire."

"What about the camp Kommandant, has anyone tried talking to him about conditions around here?" It felt like a foolish question, even as he was asking it, but Hogan had a purpose and withstood the look of sympathy Igor gave him.

"They are the SS, Colonel. It is like talking to _d'yavol._ Not to be done unless death is the only option."

Hogan nodded, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth. "I figured as much, Lieutenant, but I had to ask."

"I will get clean water, you stay, sleep while you can." Igor suggested, moving to his feet and revealing the collection of Russian soldiers that had migrated to the bunk over the course of the conversation. It was amazing the difference a mutual friend made at a party.

Igor took advantage of the men gathered around him and started a lively discourse that ended with the production of a tiny feast of Red Cross offerings. A two ounce tin of preserved pears in juice, half a tin of crackers, a partial chocolate bar and a box of seedless raisins. By no means all that the men had, but certainly an overwhelming act of kindness for a total stranger.

Hogan tried to refuse the food half a dozen times, but was persuaded to keep it or risk deeply insulting the men who had provided it. He ate all of it, slowly, enjoying every bit of the food as if he hadn't tasted anything so rich in a lifetime. It was welcome, after the rations he'd choked down in the hospital, but compared to LeBeau's meals at Stalag 13 it was slim pickings. He made it look like he was eating a gourmet meal.

As he ate the crowd of curious men, desperate for news of the outside world, grew and Hogan soon found himself sharing news of the war. Carefully crafted so that it sounded like he was a bombardier freshly shot down, translated happily through Igor who was willing to keep up the ruse so long as it brought a moral boost to his compatriots, Hogan's story turned the barracks full of listless and lackadaisical prisoners briefly into proud fighting sons of Russia.

If it was the last good thing Hogan did in this war, he thought, at least it had been worth it.


	9. Chapter 9

"O-…Oh I get it." Carter said, several hours after the heroes had returned to the (relative) safety of Stalag 13. "Storks. I get it now."

"You nut…" Newkirk shook his head at the American that had been a regular crick in his neck for almost three years, but he found himself unable to stay annoyed for long.

In the two days since they had rescued Kinch and Carter the group had been tightly focused on organizing the safe transport of four of the seven nuns to their families either through the underground or as the direct result of their own trips out of the camp. There had been plenty of close calls and their efforts had been stymied frequently by Carter's injury. But, after what Kinchloe had told them about the explosion and the twenty four hours that followed, it was nothing short of a miracle that Carter was still with them.

At the moment the four men who remained of the core underground group known as Papa Bear, stood staring at a wrinkled map of Germany in Colonel Hogan's private quarters. Looking over the often revised list of solutions, Kinch said, "So that's it then. There's no way we can get the last three out?"

"The Mother Superior of the Convent has agreed to take the youngest one, Louise, but Mother Mary Catherine is still in Berlin and can't get away at the moment." LeBeau responded, touching a finger to the capital city of Germany.

"And then there's Genevieve's parents who are in Paris of course…" Newkirk said, drowsing over a cup of steaming coffee. "And Alma's folks are in China."

"Taiwan actually…" Carter piped up from where he sat on the colonel's top bunk. "South of the Henan Province."

Newkirk shot a perturbed look over his shoulder while the others moved on.

"So they will be staying with us for a while longer." LeBeau suggested, searching the faces of the other men.

"We can only expect them to live in the tunnels for so long." Newkirk said, dropping his volume. "We'll 'ave to come up with a better long term solution soon enough."

"What about the other members of the underground. Would anybody in Hammelburg take them in?"

LeBeau made a face and shifted uncomfortably. "If they had been boys, then oui, perhaps but…girls are harder to explain. Especially girls that don't look like Germans or speak like Germans."

"I wonder if Liesel and her Uncle would consider-"

"Oh no, Kinch." Newkirk began, his voice steady and quiet. "That fifty mile trip was a disaster the first time, and a near disaster the second time. If we're sending them anywhere near that part of Germany, it'll be by parcel post, or not at all."

Kinch started to bristle at Newkirk's tone, not for the first time recalling that he outranked the Englander, but the longer he thought about it the more he agreed. They'd pushed the limit on their latest short runs to Hammelburg. Anything else could bring down the whole house of cards that they'd been left with after Hogan's departure.

"Alright, nix on Liesel then." Kinch acquiesced, then looked around. "Anybody else have any ideas?"

"Well I think-"

"Carter, if you say one word about rescuing Colonel Hogan I will climb up there and stuff a sock in your mouth." LeBeau snapped, earning surprised looks from the other two men at the table. "I'm tired of hearing it." LeBeau explained his face flushing bright red. "We all want to try. We all are worrying about Hogan but there is nothing we can do about it. He gave us our orders and we have three little girls depending on us."

Newkirk sighed and put a hand on his little mate's shoulder, understanding exactly how the man felt. "You're right, LeBeau." He agreed quietly.

Undaunted, Carter cleared his throat and said, "Well for the record that wasn't what I was gonna say." The comment earned him the full attention of the other men and Carter slipped down from his perch, landing smoothly on his good leg. He limped carefully to the table and gently took the clipboard bearing the list of locations and names from Kinch, muttering a polite, "Thank you." Before he studied the information carefully.

"That Mother Superior, the one in Berlin."

"Mother Mary Catherine." Newkirk offered.

Andrew nodded his head, "Yeah, her. She can't come here, and we can't get the girls to her. But she could still order them from one place to another, right?"

He received a few hesitant nods from the others then said, "Right. Now, suppose she sends a telegram to the ladies at another convent. One that's closer to Stalag 13. Easier to get to. And she tells them that she's sending them a group of novels-"

"Novitiates…" LeBeau corrected with mild annoyance.

"Novitiants…right. And that these girls are new to the order in Berlin, but that they don't have any room for them yet."

"Mate, the word is novitiates."

"Nov-livciates, right. So then one of us dresses up as a priest, or a nun or something and we send the girls out to the closest convent." Carter continued, ignoring the looks of disbelief, and sweeping his finger across the map as if it contained the girls themselves. "They stay there until the Mother Superior sends word that room has opened up in Berlin. Then the church itself, sends the girls to Mother Mary Catherine."

The men around him were silent, staring in disbelief. When no one spoke for a good ten minutes Carter added. "Then the girls are safe." He popped a smile on his face just for appearances sake, starting to sweat a little at the focused scrutiny.

Finally Newkirk took to his feet and slung his arm around Carter's shoulders. "Carter…" The Englander paused to consider the group and make certain that they were all in agreement before he said, "You've just come up with a brilliant plan."

Carter thought about it for a minute before he hazarded a grin. It didn't feel much like a victory with Newkirk suddenly being that nice to him, but LeBeau and Kinch were grinning at him too, and after a few seconds Carter relaxed and shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Thanks, Newkirk." He said proudly.

"I'll get a message to the Mother Superior right away." Kinch said, getting up from the table and slapping Carter on the shoulder before heading for the tunnels.

"Speaking of messages, did we ever hear back from Tiger?" Newkirk called, following Kinch into the main room.

"Oh yeah! We were so busy last night I forgot about that…the message came in about midnight last night."

"What message?" Carter asked limping through the door after LeBeau.

While Kinch searched his pockets for the scrap of paper he'd written the reply on, Newkirk searched his pockets for a cigarette and explained, "When Tiger showed up at the meetin' of the underground, anxious to have us go out and blow up a convent that had already been blown up I found it just the least bit peculiar. I asked her to uh…take a survey of sorts."

By the time Newkirk had found and lit his cigarette, Kinch had produced the message. "She did a great job with it, too. She heard back from groups all over Germany, and from Belgium, France, Poland…even Austria."

"All those people got the same message? To blow up one innocent convent?" LeBeau asked, alarmed.

"Blimey!" Newkirk muttered, reading over the list.

"So the Gestapo went fishing." Kinch said.

"More like…threw some choice rocks into the pond." Newkirk said. At Kinch's confused look, Newkirk picked up a coffee cup sitting on the main table and set it down again, just hard enough to ripple the surface. "Waves you see. Figuring he's the one that done it, Hochstetter put out some information that he knew would make some waves, then waited to see who popped up to deal with it."

"So the message really _did_ come through the underground." Kinch said, dismayed.

"Passed down a coupl'a times." Newkirk agreed.

Carter's face suddenly lit up and he let out a lengthy, "Oooh…" Then looked expectantly at the others, certain he was once again the last to come to the right conclusion. When all he got in return were perturbed and confused looks he said, "Kinch…we both know _our_ bomb didn't go off."

"Hey…that's right. Carter's bomb got buried in the rubble. We didn't get anywhere near the place before it hit the fan. How did the church blow up?"

LeBeau shrugged then offered, "We weren't the only ones to get the message. There's no reason to think we were the only ones to act on it."

"How d'ya like that? Blown up by our own people." Kinch remarked, smirking a little at the irony.

"Ya know I kinda find it…reassuring." Carter said, his hands once more in his pockets as he pontificated.

Newkirk snorted a puff of cigarette smoke and said, "Reassuring?"

"Yeah. I mean…at least we're thorough."

The men had to agree with the sergeant's statement and broke apart chuckling. Kinch headed for the bunk that would lift up and lead into the radio room. He was stopped from hitting the spring release when the man stationed at the door for the morning hissed, "Schultz coming, Klink is with him."

The men scrambled, hiding any work they'd been doing and reverting to the latest diversion. In this case, following a debilitating wave of illness, and with their favorite leader and commanding officer gone, they'd been doing nothing, in as morose a way as possible.

Klink and Schultz arrived to a depressing scene of men without happiness or purpose. Most of the men who weren't still tucked in bed, sat on their bunks, or at the table staring at nothing. They barely responded to the Sergeant of the Guard's "Acthung!"

Klink stepped into the room, taking a brief circuit of the table, his face clinched in suspicion and mild disgust. His focus settled on LeBeau, Newkirk, Kinch and Carter and he pointed a finger in their direction.

"You men there, who is the highest in rank in these barracks?"

After a decent pause for thought Kinch said, "Well I guess that would be me, sir."

"Well, actually Kinch…" Carter piped up.

"Ah, yes it's him, sir." Newkirk confirmed standing and putting a hand on Carter's shoulder, squeezing a little harder than necessary.

"Really?" Klink whined, sensing discord and wheedling his way into the crack it created.

"Your date of rank, Sergeant?" Klink demanded of Kinch.

"I can't really remember exactly, sir, but-"

"Silence!" Klink barked, missing the flash of irritation on Kinch's face. Klink whirled on Carter next and demanded, "You believe that your date of rank precedes his?"

Carter glanced at the faces around him, then winced a little under the pressure of Newkirk's fingers and finally said, "No, I was just thinking that Kinch was definitely made sergeant before me. A-and he's a staff sergeant, too."

The second after his mouth closed, Carter could feel the pressure of Newkirk's fingers releasing and he gave the corporal a surprised look that, thankfully, the gloating Klink did not see.

"Sergeant Kinchloe is in charge then?" Klink asked. "Well, not for long. I've requested for an old favorite of yours to be sent to this prison camp. An RAF colonel that the Kommandant of Stalag 16 is _delighted_ to be rid of."

Klink began to pace again, tickled pink at the looks of dismay on the faces of the men. He'd been unsettled and dazed in the past week, irritated by the arrogance of the Gestapo, and in his own way missing the company of his enemy and fellow officer, Colonel Hogan. A little fearful of an uprising as a result of the colonel's departure. Wilhelm's decision to transfer a senior officer into the camp had been the first choice he'd made on his own that he felt confident about. The reactions of the men in Barracks 2 were quickly confirming that decision.

"He will be transferred in two days, at which time you will relinquish your command to him. Until that time there will be discipline, cleanliness, respect for the guards, and no escapes! And remember…Colonel Hogan is no longer here to protect you men. Any infraction of the rules will be met with the strictest of punishments. No exceptions." With a snap of his heels, Colonel Klink turned to Schultz who snapped him a salute.

Klink wavered briefly. Schultz looked unhappy, just as unhappy and listless as the men, and Klink knew it had everything to do with Hogan's absence. An absence Klink could do nothing about which made him angry.

"Schultz!" Klink growled, "To the next barracks."

Schultz gave him a disappointed, "Yawhol." And the duo left.

"How much you wanna bet which colonel he's sendin' our way?" Newkirk raged the minute the door closed, snapping his cigarette to his mouth and fueling the rapid pounding of his heart.

"He means Crittendon, and that means getting those girls out tonight at the soonest, tomorrow at the latest." Kinch said, his voice taking on a stronger hint of command that settled Newkirk, mid-step, and drew the attention of the rest of the men. "So that's what we're gonna do. Once I've talked to the Mother Superior, I'll try to contact Snitzer and see if he can't help us get the girls out sometime in the next twenty-four hours."

"We still don't know where to take them." LeBeau said. "Where is there a convent nearby?"

"Hopefully Mother Mary Catherine will know that. In the meantime, Newkirk, the girls' clothes are looking too ratty for them to pass as new members of the church. See what you can do about new outfits. Civilian clothes will work for what we're tryin' to pull off."

Newkirk gave him a surprised but pleased, "Will do, Kinch."

"LeBeau, I'd like you to spend some time with the ladies, make sure they understand exactly how important it is that they say nothing to anyone about any of this. You and Carter work up a good script for them to follow and go over it with them until they can't remember anything else."

All around him the men that he had been imprisoned with for three years nodded their agreement. Kinch knew each man to be fully capable of doing what he had asked, and had no doubt that every detail would be worked out in the end. He didn't know if he was relying on the ghost of the authority Colonel Hogan had, or on something hidden within himself, but for the time being it didn't matter.

"One more thing, guys. I don't intend to take over, and I don't intend to hand the reins to Colonel Crittendon and call it quits, either. We're gonna get Colonel Hogan back. But we're gonna do it smart. Until then, we keep Papa Bear alive. Agreed?"

He received a chorus of affirmation that followed him down into the tunnel where he set to work at the radio station, glad he could retreat to something so familiar.

LeBeau followed close behind him but Carter lingered above, stopping Newkirk before the Englishman could disappear down the ladder.

Rubbing at the stinging spot on his shoulder Carter gave Newkirk a wounded look and asked, "Hey, why'd you hold me down like that? That kinda hurt?"

Peter sighed and gently put his hand on Carter's shoulder, his face growing sincere. "Carter, in your own bizarre way you've always been a one about proper military protocol. And I'll admit that from time to time we need that sort of thing. But of all the men here that could have volunteered as ranking officer, you could not."

Carter squinted then asked, "Well, why not?"

"How are you gonna explain gettin' your leg near blown off? You're barely healed as it is, Carter, now what sort of a mate would I be, if I let that blighter take you in for questioning because of a mysterious limp that we can't explain?"

Carter hung his head a little nodding, and Newkirk tugged at his shoulder until the sergeant looked up again.

"You're a valuable part of this team, Andrew, or the colonel wouldn't have kept ya. And your my mate, even if you do say ruddy stupid things from time to time."

"And cave in tunnels when I don't get the mixtures right…"

"And get lost in the woods because you've dropped the bloody compass…" Newkirk smirked, happy to see Carter cheering up a little.

"You know, Newkirk, I did finally find that compass. The one that I lost. Ya see, I got lost a second time and.." As Carter continued to ramble Newkirk led the way into the tunnel, and this time, instead of interrupting, Newkirk just shook his head and smirked.


	10. Chapter 10

Hogan didn't see Hochstetter again for a week, but the time passed quickly. With Igor's help, the colonel was able to establish that he was in fact the highest ranking officer, and that no one in particular had any interest in challenging him for command.

The men had in the past made little effort to govern themselves and avoided the mob of enlisted men like they were the plague, enjoying the peace that their rank provided. The officers referred to the giant U-shaped complex as The Zoo, a place fit only for wild animals. They saw no value in the men and no purpose in trying to rally or contain the rowdy Russians housed only fifty feet away.

Deciding that this would have to change if he was ever going to make it out of Gusen, Hogan spent one morning studying The Zoo. Standing alone in the compound he watched the men of The Zoo from twenty feet away, waiting to see what they would do. At first Igor insisted on going with him, afraid that the colonel's sudden lapse in sanity would get him killed.

Hogan explained that this was an experiment in psychology, a chance to see what the men would do with a new prisoner in their midst. The data would be skewed if Igor was there.

"The d-dat-"

"Data…information." Hogan said, brightly.

"Dah, the information will sk-"

"Skew.."

"If you are killed, nyet?"

Hogan gave the younger man a disapproving look, then clapped him on the shoulder reassuringly. "I promise not to get too close."

Reluctantly Igor gave in, and returned to the officer's barracks leaving Hogan alone in the yard at his requisite twenty foot distance.

He attracted plenty of attention in the first ten minutes and enough men rushed to the two ends of the balcony to cause the wood to creak under their combined weight. The buzz of questioning conversation rose to a crescendo, peaked with shouts thrown in his direction. Hogan didn't respond, couldn't have responded given his lack of Russian. He simply waited.

There had to be an alpha, this was his theory. No zoo in the world could maintain a healthy pride of lions without an alpha. Every herd had a mustang. Every jungle had a king. It was the way nature oriented itself, and somewhere in this mess of angry and unruly men, there had to be a natural born leader. If he waited long enough, that leader would make himself known.

Two hours of pacing later he finally spotted his man. The difference was subtle, an act of omission really. He was the only man in sight with his mouth closed. If the others weren't talking, they were staring in wonder, mouths agape, but the thin, wiry, mousy-haired Prussian perched just inside an open window, was silent.

Once he'd spotted the man, Robert Hogan spent an additional ten minutes studying him, even as he was being studied, then quietly walked back to the officer's barracks. That afternoon he made his first executive decision and ordered the junior officers technically under his command to fall out an hour before evening roll call for calisthenics. As he expected, the order was met with vast disapproval and only a handful of the men joined him on the parade ground.

As Hogan wasn't able to do much more than a stiff march, he restricted the men to a long in-formation walk around the perimeter, attracting both the attention of the guards, and the men in The Zoo. Their parade ended in front of the officer's barracks where they waited for the SS guards to show up.

Finding some of the prisoners already on line, and some in the barracks created a confusion of activity that went badly for the men who had ignored the colonel's orders. Dragged from their bunks they were formed apart from the other men and forced to stand an hour longer than the others while they were counted over and over.

The next morning every man in the officer's barracks joined the colonel for his AM march.

They formed for roll call directly in front of The Zoo, forcing the guards to withstand the barrage of insults from the enlisted men, while they counted. It was a subtle trick of circumstances that the guards could do nothing about without risking the accusation of cruel and inhumane treatment. The prisoners were, after all, following the rules.

After five days Hogan's morning parade had gone from consisting of only a handful of officers, to all of the officers and about half of the two-hundred enlisted men.

At first the participants from The Zoo were there for the entertainment. Making fools of themselves as they followed the officers for the sake of the laughs they were getting from their buddies on the balcony.

The mockery ended and Hogan thinned the herd a little when he added a lap of quick march to the regimen. He barely survived it, but it had done its purpose. The jokers fell out, and by the afternoon parade the group was bigger, more focused, and organized.

Their training starting to kick in again, some of the NCOs arranged the straggling group of men into proper battalion formation, barking out commands enough to keep the men in line, and mark time.

When the exercise period ended with the men standing at attention, a few minutes early for scheduled roll call, those men that had opted out of the march, were none the less present and on line before the SS guards arrived. After the fifth morning of unexpected military efficiency the guards ceased dragging out roll call unnecessarily.

At the end of the week, Hogan stood in front of the group of what he had begun to consider his men, his thumbs in the pockets of his flight jacket, like always, waiting for the SS guards.

All but twenty-three of the entire compliment of soldiers on the POW side of the camp stood at attention, in proper formation in front of The Zoo. Organized by newly named barrack units, each group of enlisted men stood behind an NCO, the Junior officers arranged in front of them, with Colonel Hogan to the front and center of the column.

It was an imposing sight. It was meant to be, and Hogan was proud of the men. Proud of the Russians and their military training, which he had come to appreciate in the past week. He was also proud of the mousy-haired Prussian, who had been one of the first to join the twice daily parade from the ranks of The Zoo.

He'd introduced himself simply as Private Caine, when Hogan had questioned him, and proved to be an apt soldier. He was shorter than Hogan had expected, but physically fit and clearly intelligent. He spoke English and Russian with an accent that Hogan also questioned. Caine's response was that he had been born in Russia, but moved a lot as a child, and there the explanation ended.

The SS guards, slightly more relaxed now that military decorum appeared to be returning to the POW side of the camp, had begun a habit of arriving later for roll call. They were no longer needed to wrestle the soldiers out of their beds, and seemed to be enjoying the reprieve that they perceived they had earned.

It was a habit that Hogan knew he could turn to his advantage in due time.

This morning however the SS guards were punctual, primarily because they had an audience. Major Hochstetter marched behind the group of six guards assigned to the officer's barracks, his hand resting casually on his Luger. Hogan could see the Major's eyes scanning the large formation with barely disguised disbelief.

Roll call was called quickly, the men snapping to attention but not saluting. Hochstetter watched the display with a barely visible smirk on his face, clearly aware of the changes that had taken place in the short time Hogan had been there. Hogan looked away long enough to focus on the guards heading to The Zoo to check on the prisoners not accounted for. By the time he looked back he was surprised to see Hochstetter suddenly pale, sweating and staring at some of the enlisted men.

Once finished the guard who had called the roll turned to Hochstetter and asked for the name of the prisoner he was taking with him. The short major didn't respond at first, and the guard had to ask again before Hochstetter jolted and nodded to Colonel Hogan. Two of the guards approached, pointing their guns and ordering the CO to go with them.

Hogan made no effort to resist them, but couldn't help jerking around when he heard a low hum pass through the men. The sound started out barely audible, then rose to a spine chilling mezzo, hovering where it could neither be mistaken as something else, nor considered a disturbance.

Colonel Hogan's story had passed through the camp like wild fire. The story he'd told via Igor, embellished by time and imagination, and always ending with the vicious beating at the hands of a Gestapo man. The newly reformed army of men were riled at having the closest thing to a commanding officer marched away at gun point. Especially back into the clutches of Major Hochstetter.

Hogan's only response was to turn his head far enough to catch Igor's attention and nod. Igor alone had been warned that Hochstetter would show up sooner or later to collect the American pilot, and he'd been given specific instructions for the men to keep their 'training' going in Hogan's absence. Igor returned the nod then stepped in front of the group of men and snapped an order.

The humming stopped and the men gradually returned their attention to Igor. The SS guards, no longer interested in wasting time inside the wire, quickly followed the major and his prisoner back to the administration side of the camp.

Colonel Hogan could feel the tension vibrating off of Hochstetter as they walked together, the little man easily keeping pace. The major's color still looked off, but he had recovered admirably, his jaw once again stiff.

The gates closed behind them, but to Hogan's surprise he wasn't led back to the administration building, but toward a waiting black sedan parked just inside the prison walls.

One of the SS men opened the driver side door and looked at Hogan expectantly. Hogan in turn looked to Hochstetter who pulled his Luger, cocked it and simply said, "Drive."

Hogan climbed in, the sole target of half a dozen rifles, and waited for Hochstetter to climb into the back. The door slammed shut and Hochstetter growled, "The gun is at your back, Colonel. You do not want to test me. Drive out of the gate and take the first right onto the Hauptstrasse. There will be a park five kilometers down the road."

Hogan already had the car in gear and was releasing the clutch. Hochstetter was taking a huge risk, and Hogan had the feeling that the purpose was to be able to talk without an audience. Even as he was weighing the wisdom of escape, Hogan knew he wouldn't try it. Not until he knew why Hochstetter had gone to such great lengths to organize Hogan's extraction from Stalag 13.

As they left the gates of Gusen, Hogan remembered the stricken look that he had seen on Hochstetter's face. More than once, now that he thought about it, and only in the past few weeks. Hochstetter was a different man, a man worried almost literally to death about something.

As the Gestapo agent who had caught _the_ Papa Bear, he should have been rolling in Frauleins, champagne and praises from the Fuhrer.

Instead he had taken said high-value prisoner to a POW camp in Austria, and left him there to rot for a week.

Turning onto the main street, Hogan asked, "Am I permitted to talk, Herr Major?"

"Now is not the time." Hochstetter responded, saying nothing else until he prompted Hogan to take the turn into the park. What followed was a confusing, zig-zagging route that took them beyond the populated children's playground, picnicking pagodas and fountain, and into a thick wooded area. Hogan thought they might have been heading north, but quickly lost track as they turned and twisted on the narrow, dirt road.

They had driven at a slow pace for almost fifteen minutes before Hochstetter pointed the American toward an even fainter path, barely two ruts between patches of overgrown weeds. Not entirely sure that the car would make it, Hogan did as he was told and gunned the engine, shooting the car up the path a hundred feet or so before he could go no further.

A cabin had appeared around a short bend in the road. Hochstetter ordered Hogan to set the brake and turn off the vehicle before getting out and commanding that the American do the same. Still under the gun Hogan stood staring at the cabin, massaging his aching side, trying not to imagine the absolute worst that Hochstetter had in mind.

"The second key. Open the trunk. There is a basket." Hochstetter waved the gun, his free hand guiding him along the side of the car as he backed across the rough track. Hogan unlocked the latch on the trunk and lifted the heavy metal shell to find an honest-to-God picnic hamper in the back.

"How thoughtful…" He muttered, not sure he felt any better about things. He hefted the basket into his arms and shut the trunk again with his elbow, then followed the major's directions onto the porch of the cabin and toward the front door.

The unlocked, free swinging front door was what changed Hogan's mind. Doors were tricky things, especially when they were made of thick black forest oak and moved on well oiled hinges. A door in good condition is a bad thing for someone holding a gun on someone else.

Hogan felt the door give without trouble, made up his mind, and a second later feigned a struggle with the thick wooden panel. Hochstetter stalled, perhaps suspecting something, but not acting fast enough to prevent the chain of events from unfolding.

The second he saw Hochstetter hesitate Hogan shoved the door open, threw the picnic hamper at the major with all his might, ducked into the cabin, then slammed the door shut again.

The lock on the door required a key, but the thick block of wood balanced on iron brackets didn't, and Hogan slid it home, effectively barring the door. The shots came and Hogan ducked out of habit, knowing that a Lugar vs. an oak door was a fifty-fifty prospect. He spotted the hunting rifle a second later and vaulted a hand hewn varnished settee to get to the fireplace, jerking the rifle off its mount above the mantel.

It wasn't loaded, and the firing pin was gone. Clearly Hochstetter hadn't left anything to chance. The major's fourth or fifth bullet had gone through a crease in the door and winged off one of the rocks that formed the fireplace, effectively warning Hogan to keep his head down.

It wouldn't be long before the major remembered that glass gave less resistance than wood and started shooting through the windows.

"The rifle is not loaded, Hogan! The back door has been welded shut and the windows painted closed. Life will become very uncomfortable for you if you insist on keeping yourself locked in."

"Alone and alive sounds better than dead with company." Hogan responded, desperately searching the walls, the floor, the ceiling, anywhere for anything that might get him out alive.

"I need only siphon gasoline from the car and set fire to the cabin…"

It hit Hogan like a ton of bricks.

Hochstetter didn't want him _dead_. Hochstetter didn't want him _tortured_. And Hochstetter didn't want information. Hochstetter wanted help, _his_ help.

The broken rib hadn't been revenge or a warning, it had been a safety measure. It had been a stall! Something to keep the indomitable Papa Bear from disappearing from the POW camp while Hochstetter made final arrangements.

Hogan raced back to his memory of Hochstetter's reactions to the POW formation. In a little over two weeks Hogan had gone from immobile and flat on his back to CO of over two hundred men. Those men had been dispirited and defeated enemy soldiers before Hogan got there, and were proud Russian nationalists the day Hochstetter returned. Even if leaving Hogan at Gusen hadn't been a test of what he could do, clearly the American colonel had passed.

The ashen appearance of the Major was still haunting him when Hogan finally stepped to the door and lifted the bar. He backed up to the settee that he had jumped over before and put his hands in the air before he said, "The door's open, Hochstetter. My hands are in the air. Try not to shoot me."

The Major entered cautiously, but confidently, and to Hogan's surprise appeared to have caught the hamper when it had been thrown. The delicate basket showed no sign of damage from a drop.

Hochstetter put the hamper on the table next to the door, closed the oak panel behind him and slid the block into place without looking at the door once. With the click of the varnished wood against the metal bracket the final few pieces clicked into place in Hogan's head and he felt like the floor had dropped a bit.

"You want me to get somebody outta that prison camp, don't you, Major?" Hogan said, baffled that he hadn't seen it before.

The major's shoulders seemed to sag, a motion so slight that anyone not studying the major would have missed it. His habitual grimace fell and his eyes sank a little behind a glisten of moisture that might have been tears. But men like Hochstetter didn't shed tears. Men like Hochstetter were monsters, demons, devils.

"Yes, Colonel Hogan." The Gestapo man hesitated briefly, then said, "There is a private in that camp that was shot down a few months ago. His name is Caine."

Men like Hochstetter, Hogan realized…

"This Caine…" Hochstetter began, a heavy breath escaping him. "Is my son."

Men like Hochstetter…were also fathers.

* * *

TBC!

Look for a story called "The Camp" coming to a fan fiction site near you.


End file.
